


The Curse of the Mockingbird's Song

by petyrbaealish



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Minor Character Death, Petyr as a pirate, Pirates, Sword Fighting, basically the plot of Curse of the Black Pearl with some adjustments and at least one twist, but I think you'll still like it, reek is not theon, the further you read the more it's different from the movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-01-10 20:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 77,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12307167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish
Summary: Sansa dreams of excitement and adventure, just like in the songs. But when her life suddenly becomes much like the songs she loves, complete with danger, intrigue, and the alluring Captain Baelish, will she resist it, or embrace it? And will a romance between a high born lady and a pirate have any hope of flourishing, or is it destined to sink beneath the waves, joining the wreckage of so many ships before it?Includes loads of canon lines, because honestly this movie is a gem, and they’re too good not to use.This fic is finished save for editing. It will be 41 chapters and I think you'll love it. Updates will be at least once a week, twice if I can manage it.Also, the chapters will be shorter than I usually do, and I will be including Sansa, Arya, Gendry, and Petyr POVs :)





	1. Chapter 1

It was getting late, the darkened sky making the waters almost black, the pale moonlight casting shadows on their faces, and glinting among the waves. Sansa Stark stood on the deck of her father’s ship, hands clasped at her waist like the proper lady she was, studiously trying to ignore her younger sister’s singing.

“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me,” Arya crooned, brandishing the handle of a broom at some invisible opponent. 

Her sister hated being cooped up on the ship, with no room to burn off all of the energy she always seemed to have in excess. Sansa didn’t much like being aboard either, though not because she needed more room to wander. Rather, she missed the comforts of home, of being on land. Being on a ship meant far fewer amenities than she was used to, including limited selections of food, and less access to the necessities for maintaining her image as the well bred daughter of Eddard Stark. Her only consolation was that the ship was packed with eligible men, all dressed in their finest military attire. Though that consolation was lessened somewhat by the fact that she didn’t have the resources to look her best, and they hardly paid her a second glance anyway, perhaps too terrified to show untoward attention to the Commodore’s daughter.

Arya continued humming her stupid song, prancing about with her broom until Sansa finally snapped and told her to be quiet. 

“Why should I?” Arya fired back, poking her with the broom.

Sansa seized the broom handle and yanked it away before tossing it overboard. She didn’t care if her father yelled at her for it. She just wanted to make Arya mad. Her sister glared at her and began singing again, belting out the lyrics.

“Hush lass.”

Arya stopped singing and they both turned around to see who had spoken. It was Lothor Brune, one of the men under her father’s command. “Why?” Arya demanded.

“Because it’s bad luck to be going on about pirates when we’re out at sea,” the older man said gruffly, eyes shifting nervously about as if he thought the mere mention of pirates might summon them from the depths of hell, or wherever they came from.

Sansa laughed. She wanted her sister to stop singing, but she felt his reasons were more than a little silly. Bad luck, indeed. 

Arya opened her mouth, possibly to retort, or to start singing again defiantly, but stopped when their father approached. “What’s this?” he asked, frowning at Mr. Brune.

“Your girl’s been singing about pirates. I thought it best to remind her of the dangers,” Mr. Brune said, twisting his hat in his hands.

Commodore Stark turned to his youngest. “Best be quiet Arya. We wouldn’t want to spook the crew.”

Sansa couldn’t resist speaking then. “But the notion that merely singing about pirates might make them come is simply ludicrous.”

Mr. Brune’s gaze darkened. “When you’ve dealt with pirates you’ll understand better, Lady Stark. It’s best not to tempt fate, where they’re concerned.”

“I think it would be rather exciting to meet a pirate,” Sansa said flippantly, feeling brave. She wasn’t lying. Pirates usually meant adventure, being captured only to have your true love rescue you, the perfect picture of happiness. Just like in the stories. She could only be so lucky.

Mr. Brune gave her a look of disbelief and walked away, muttering that he thought it was bad luck to have women aboard a ship, even those as young as her and Arya.

“It wouldn’t be,” her father assured her. “Any man marked with a pirate’s brand or who sails under a pirate’s flag well deserves his hanging.”

“Sounds like excitement to me,” Arya offered. Then, with a wicked grin, she added, “Sansa threw one of your brooms overboard.”

Sansa glared at her. “You were poking me with it.” She turned to her father. “It was an accident. I only meant to take it away from her but I guess I tugged too hard and it went into the water.” 

He studied her face, searching for the lie and sighed. “Just behave, the both of you, alright? We’ll be returning home in the morning.”

Sansa kissed her father on the cheek and then smirked at Arya as he headed back across the deck. Arya scowled at Sansa and kicked at a nearby bucket, grumbling about how their father always seemed to believe Sansa and never her, even when she actually told the truth. Which was quite rare, but still. It was hardly fair, but Sansa didn’t mind it. She loved that she was a far better liar than her younger sister. It helped even the playing field between them as they continually got on each other’s nerves.

Ignoring her sister’s heated mutterings, Sansa turned back to the water, staring absently as she lost herself to fantasies of meeting pirates and becoming the beautiful damsel in distress, waiting only for her handsome rescuer. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she almost didn’t see the parasol bobbing among the waves. It stood out starkly against the black water, almost blindingly white, and she smiled at it, wondering about the lady who must have lost it.

Behind her, Arya suddenly rushed to the railing and gasped, pointing past the parasol. “Look!”

Sansa followed the path of her sister’s finger and clapped a hand to her mouth. Chunks of debris were floating in the water, and atop one of the larger sections was a boy, lying prone across the wood. She whirled around. “Father!”

Commodore Stark came rushing back to them, his face turning white when he spotted the boy. “Man overboard!” he cried.

The crew burst into a flurry of activity and managed to haul the boy on deck. Everyone crowded around him for a moment, and Sansa and Arya fought to see through the mass of bodies until another cry rang out. “A ship!”

Within seconds the crowd had dispersed, the shipmates fleeing to the railing to gawk at the ship they’d come across, sails tattered and aflame, smoke billowing into the night air. Arya and her father were amongst them, though Sansa stayed beside the boy. She kneeled down next to him and smoothed his thick black hair back from his forehead. 

The boy sat up with a start, expelling water from his lungs. Sansa reeled back in alarm for a moment before reaching out to calm him. “It’s alright,” she assured him. “We’ve rescued you.” She paused, then asked curiously, “What’s your name?”

“Gendry,” he choked out. “Gendry Waters.”

She smiled. “A pleasure to meet you, Gendry. My name is Sansa Stark.”

He stared up at her for a moment before falling back onto the deck, his eyes rolling back into his head. As he fell, she saw a glint of something from under his shirt, and couldn’t help but investigate, once she was certain he’d passed out. Around his neck was a fine gold chain, ending in the most unusual pendant she’d ever seen.

It was very old, and most certainly fashioned from pure gold, round with a skull etched into its surface. It almost looked like a coin, though from where she couldn’t say. As she studied it, her eyes widened and she suddenly realized what the skull meant. “You’re a pirate,” she breathed.

Heart pounding with this newfound knowledge, Sansa quickly glanced around to make sure no one had heard her, or seen the coin. Everyone still seemed to be engrossed with the burning ship, the crew scrambling about to form rescue parties, in hopes that there were survivors among the wreckage. Satisfied, she undid the clasp and removed the necklace from around the boy’s neck, tucking the evidence safely away, down the bodice of her gown. No one need know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's six years later and Sansa still yearns for adventure, particularly as she faces the prospect of a less than desirable match of her father's orchestration.

**Six years later….**

 

Out across the water, a ship was burning, slowly crumbling in on itself as fire wrought its destruction. Sansa could feel the heat pulsing through the air, feel it as it kissed her skin, and embers singed her hair. She stared out at the writhing inferno, clutching the pirate medallion to her breast, feeling absolutely powerless. As she watched, a sudden dread slipped into her bones, and she turned her gaze.

Her heart stopped, and her breath caught. There, peeking through the smoke and haze was another ship, sails black as ink, gliding silently through the choppy waters. It seemed almost a mirage, mere smoke and vapor twisting and forming to frighten her, its image rooting her to the spot. Against the black sails, a gleaming white skull atop crossed bones screamed out at her, its ghostly grin sending shivers down her spine...

Sansa bolted upright in her bed, heart thumping wildly under her ribcage. She’d dreamt of that ship again, had done so many times since that night. And every time she remembered even more detail, picking out the exquisite craftsmanship, the birds taking flight along the prow. She scrambled out of bed and headed straight for her dressing table, yanking open the bottom drawer where she kept the necklace hidden, somehow afraid that someone had found it and taken it in the night.

It was still there. Sansa snatched it from the drawer and clutched it to her breast, breaths shaky. She wasn’t sure why she had held onto it, for all these years. It wasn’t anything she could wear, nor would it benefit Gendry if anyone happened upon it and realized its origins. But something had kept her from discarding it.

Absently, she strung the necklace around her neck, fastening it with care and drawing the pirate medallion to nestle between her breasts. She stared at her reflection, pondering her reasons for keeping the coin, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Perhaps it was still that spark of adventure that drew her to it. She’d never gotten her wish for further excitement, her days filled instead with society events and military ceremonies that she was obligated to attend with her father and sister. Which, she supposed was alright. She enjoyed the parties, gossiping with the other ladies, dancing with handsome men. Far more than Arya did anyway. But still, sometimes her heart yearned for something more, though she wasn’t quite sure what that something was.

A knock on the door startled her into awareness and Sansa heard her father calling to her through the door. “Sansa, dear? Are you awake?”

Sansa hurriedly dashed back to her bed, grabbing her dressing gown. “Yes! Just, just a moment father!”

Quickly she slipped it on, tucking the necklace out of sight, just as her father opened the door and stepped inside. “Still abed at this hour?” he teased, grinning at her as he went to the window and pulled open the curtains.

“I suppose I was tired,” she said sheepishly.

“Never mind,” Commodore Stark said, as servants came inside, carrying a large flat box. “I’ve bought you a present.”

Sansa grinned and tore open the box, gasping as she lifted the dress, all cream and ivory, from its wrappings. “It’s beautiful,” she said, holding it up in front of her as she gazed into the floor length mirror.

Her ladies maids ushered her behind the screen and proceeded to strip her of her nightclothes, before helping her into the dress. Commodore Stark continued talking as they worked, pulling the stays of Sansa’s corset. “I’m told it’s the latest fashion from London.”

Sansa’s hand flew to her ribs as her ladies maids tugged harder, her other hand bracing against the screen. They were squeezing all of the air from her lungs… “Women from London must have learnt not to breathe,” she choked out, struggling for air as the maids tied the stays securely.

Commodore Stark chuckled and Sansa waited while the maids finished adjusting her dress before stepping out from behind the screen. She stared at her reflection, noting how svelte her figure looked, and how gorgeous the fabric was, deciding that perhaps the pain and lack of air might be a worthy price to pay for such beauty. Though why her father had gone to such trouble did give her pause. He’d never paid much attention to fashion before…

She turned to look at him and frowned. “Might I inquire as to the occasion?”

He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “Does a father need a reason to dote on his daughter?”

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him, waiting for him to gain the courage to speak, and finally he did, sighing. “I had hoped you might wear it to the party today. The Baratheons are hosting a get together at their seaside home. Joffrey in particular seemed most eager for your attendance.”

Her heart sank. Of course. Another attempt to wed her off to the Baratheon boy. When they’d first been introduced, she’d been eleven years old, and quickly became infatuated with him. Now, six years later, the wool had been pulled from over her eyes, and she saw behind his handsome features, to the cruelty that lurked beneath. The realization had come quite slowly, a fact she was now very ashamed to admit, but in time she learned how distasteful she’d find the match. Every outing together had gathered further evidence of his less than palatable character, until she found herself avoiding any further acquaintances as best as she could.

She couldn’t tell her father, couldn’t outright reject Joffrey, not when her father was so close to Robert Baratheon, Joffrey’s father. Not when Commodore Stark worked closely with Governor Baratheon, admired him, strove to please him. How could she tell her father that Joffrey wasn’t as pleasant as he’d first seemed, that she wanted to marry anyone but the eldest Baratheon boy. She couldn’t. That fact ate away at her, and she tried her best to soldier on, to put up a brave front and socialize with Joffrey and his family, all the while loathing the day that he might finally be nudged into proposing to her, effectively trapping her.

It was moments like these that Sansa wished her mother was still alive. Catelyn Stark had died soon after giving birth to Arya, taken from her husband and children far too soon. Sansa missed her every day, even more so when she was faced with her impending nuptials to a boy she couldn’t fathom happiness with. Catelyn would have known what to do, how to help Sansa approach her father, or even perhaps, might have taken the initiative herself without prompting. Sansa didn’t remember much of her mother, but she was certain Catelyn had been far more perceptive than her father ever tended to be.

Reluctantly, Sansa agreed to go. To her despair, Arya had gotten wind of the party and had skipped out early, likely taking refuge in the forge where Gendry Waters worked, so Sansa didn’t even have her sister to count on while she fended off Joffrey. Though the sisters still fought, butting heads more often than not, they still counted on each other when times became rough, still found comfort in each other’s company. Arya’s presence would be missed at the party, though she would have grumbled through the whole ordeal, complaining about having to wear fancy dresses and act like a proper lady. Unlike Sansa, Arya wasn’t made for society, instead craving the moments where she could dress up like a boy and wave a sword around, learning to fight with the boy they’d rescued years ago.

Cursing her sister for abandoning her, Sansa left with her father to attend the party, her nerves frazzled from the possibility of spending hours with the boy she’d come to despise. It seemed her dream had been an omen for what the rest of the day held. If only pirates might come to steal her away from the brutish Baratheon boy. She wouldn’t have some handsome rescuer to come to her aid, but she rather felt she’d prefer the pirates over being Joffrey’s wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in this story I've decided not to include Robb or any of the other Stark boys (including Jon). It just made sense not to include them. 
> 
> For those that have seen the movie, I think you'll know where this is heading! At first, the plot is going to be pretty close to the movie's (like I did for Jurassic Park), but about halfway through there will be deviations, which I think you'll like. I like reimagining the plots of certain stories to include our lovely gruesome twosome (and others) lol.
> 
> Also, next chapter is Petyr's POV!
> 
> Hope you liked it :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr finds himself in need of a new ship, and Port Royal looks promising for such a task (never mind that he has little choice in the matter).
> 
> Trigger Warning: Allusions to Petyr's past with Lysa, which is similar to in canon.

_**Petyr:** _

 

Captain Petyr Baelish swore as he leapt down from the mast onto the deck of the small boat he’d stolen. Somehow or other it had sprung a leak, and water was quickly rising, and really that was just his luck, as of late. He snatched up a bucket and started to try and slow the water’s progress, but soon gave it up as a lost cause. It was inevitable.

The boat was sinking.

Petyr frowned off into the distance, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. Land wasn’t so far off. He could still make it. Though he might have to swim the rest of the way. It wasn’t his first choice, but he needed to make it to the port. It was time he found himself a new ship. Preferably one much bigger than the one he’d stolen from Ros. That wasn’t sinking.

His thoughts darkened as he remembered just how exactly he had found himself in this mess, and he nearly missed spotting the display the townspeople had left for people like him, the so-called banes of society. Along a little inlet of land, corpses were strung up by their necks, swaying as the wind battered them. Nailed to the branch that supported them was a sign, its message a mockery of the way most of his brethren spoke: ‘Pirates Ye Be Warned.’

Had he been one to wear a hat, or to succumb to sentimentality, out of some respect for his fellows, he might have swept the tri corner from his head and held it to his breast. But he’d never liked wearing hats-they didn’t exactly suit him, and though it wasn’t entirely practical to go without when you were a pirate, he preferred impracticality in this instance. Instead, he usually tied a strip of cloth (silk, if he could manage it) around his brow, and shaded his eyes when needed.

As for sorrow for those that had been caught and hung, he really didn’t have any thoughts to spare. Long ago, he’d felt kinship with those who lived the lawless lives of piracy (either by choice or necessity) but that had since been leached from his hardened mind. Euron’s betrayal had cut deep. Now, he felt no obligations to anyone but himself. A lonely way to live life, to be sure, but it had kept him alive thus far.

Of course, Euron Greyjoy’s mutiny had only been the tip of the iceberg when it came to the sob story of Petyr’s life. He hadn’t always been an outlaw. Once, he’d been far more respectable. Poor, to be sure, but much less of social pariah. He’d even grown up quite comfortably, after the Tullys had taken him in. Until he’d fallen in love with Hoster Tully’s eldest daughter, and her betrothed had nearly killed him in a duel for her hand.

Petyr had thought that might be the worst of it, that he’d been refused by his love, and nearly killed by hers, but he’d been sorely mistaken. Catelyn’s younger sister, Lysa, had taken advantage of him in a vulnerable moment, and when Hoster learned that Lysa was pregnant, Petyr found himself homeless in addition to everything that had already happened. After that, it was only natural that he’d gone on to live a life of debauchery. Society didn’t want him, that much was clear. And he had tired of trying to navigate their ridiculous rules of decorum. He’d never win, not that way. Instead he’d find a way to fuck them. And for that, piracy seemed the ideal choice.

The boat was sinking more rapidly than ever, and he was forced to climb the main mast as it slowly disappeared in the murky water. Just ahead, he could see the docks, packed with ships and bustling with life. People stopped in mid movement as they unloaded cargo from their boats, mouths gaping as they spotted him, but he paid them no mind. Petyr stared straight ahead as his boat sailed straight to the nearest dock, leaping lightly from the mast onto solid wood just before his perch sunk under the surface. Ignoring the man walking towards him, he swept confidently down the dock, enjoying the feel of stability underneath his feet once more.

The man turned and followed him. “Hold up! It’s a shilling to tie up your boat at the dock,” he insisted. “And I’ll need to know your name, as well.”

Petyr sighed and gave the man a disbelieving look before looking pointedly at the bubbles in the water where his boat had once been. The man seemed unperturbed, however, so Petyr reached for the bag he kept hidden in his coat. “What do you say three shillings, and we forget the name,” he said smoothly, pushing the coins across the man’s log book.

The man peered down at the money for a moment before snapping the book closed. “Welcome to Port Royal, Mr. Smith,” he said, before turning and walking away.

Petyr smirked and headed in the opposite direction. As he passed the man’s workstation, he spotted a money bag, sitting there most invitingly unattended. With a surreptitious glance around, he swiped the bag and walked away, a new spring in his step. Things were turning his way once more, to be sure.

He ambled around towards a more secluded section of the docks, feigning nonchalance as he studied the ships he passed with a keen eye. Having lost his crew, he needed something that he alone could sail, at least at first. That left out a grand majority of the boats bobbing along in the shallows, far too large for one man to handle, though he spotted one not too far off that held promise.

A party seemed to be in full swing in the neighboring house, the attendants all absorbed in their drink and mundane attempts at instilling some excitement into their lives. Petyr saw two guards looking longingly up at the festivities, and decided to go ahead and chance it, striding confidently down the dock and onto the ship.

It was a beautiful work of craftsmanship, to be sure, though it still paled in comparison to _his_ ship, now captained by his former first mate and mutinous crew. Petyr ran his hand along the smooth railing, not a blemish to be found in the woodwork, ignoring the way the two guards gaped at him comically before rushing forward.

“Oy!” One of them called, huffing as he hauled his excess girth down the dock and up onto the ship. “You there!”

"This dock is off limits to civilians," the other guard insisted, drawing himself up to his full height in an attempt to be more impressive. The lad towered over Petyr, but his concave chest, wispy mustache and pimple flecked cheeks made him a far less formidable figure.

"I'm terribly sorry, I didn't know. If I see one, I'll be sure to let you know," Petyr drawled, idly prodding the wheel at the helm so that it spun a few notches to the right.

The two guards exchanged confused looks before stepping forward together, shoulder to shoulder, in hopes of appearing more threatening. Petyr continued to examine the ship, unperturbed.

"Apparently there's some fancy to-do up at that house. How could it be that two such upstanding young gentlemen as yourselves did not merit an invitation?" Petyr commented inquiringly, trying to buy himself more time before they came to their senses and used their weapons or called for backup.

"Someone has to make sure this dock stays off limit to civilians," said the pimply one uncertainly.

Petyr glanced over at another ship docked nearby, far more impressive than the one they were currently standing on. "Tell me, why guard a ship such as this, when you've got that fine specimen out there?" he asked, partly out of curiosity, and partly in an attempt to glean more information about the ship he’d set his sights on taking.

"What this ship lacks in finesse it makes up for in speed. There isn't any ship out there that can outrun the Interceptor," the first guard said proudly, puffing out his expansive chest.

Petyr raised his eyebrows. Is that a fact? "I daresay you've never heard of the Mockingbird's Song then?"

"Legends don't count,” the portly guard scoffed. “There isn't any real ship that can outrun the Interceptor."

The pimply guard looked at his companion with a frown. "I've seen it," he insisted.

"You've seen a ship with sails black as pitch, crewed by the damned and captained by a man so evil, they say hell spat him back out?" Portly asked, sounding skeptical.

Pimply considered this. "No,” he admitted. “But I have seen a ship with black sails."

Petyr walked the length of the ship once more, taking in every detail as they argued. Portly was rolling his eyes at Pimply’s weak assertion that any ship with black sails must in fact be the famed Mockingbird’s Song, but Petyr ignored them, intent on his agenda. Oh yes, he thought. This’ll do. This’ll do nicely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loads of canon lines in this chapter lol. As I said, this movie is a gem :)
> 
> Also, our couple will meet in the next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heat and the inconvenience of wearing a corset get to Sansa. Petyr finds himself in a tricky situation as his past comes back to haunt him.

_**Sansa:** _

It was so hot, even by the water, a light breeze stirring Sansa’s hair, carrying a whiff of the ocean along its current. She was getting lightheaded from the heat, her chest constricted by the corset that just _had_ to be the latest fashion in London. It was bad enough that she was beginning to think she should find a knife somewhere and cut the blasted thing off.

The party was one of those dull affairs that had once given her such pleasure, but now felt utterly stifling in its mediocrity. Officers were prominent among the guest list, and every eligible girl who had garnered an invitation to the party was intent on throwing herself at the most distinguished of the bunch. Her father was off somewhere, deep in conversation with Governor Baratheon, leaving her at the mercy of the Governor’s detestable son. Sansa had spent much of the party dodging Joffrey, but as the day wore on, the temperature insistently rising, she experienced an increased difficulty in evading him, until finally he cornered her by the refreshments.

Sansa finished her drink and led him away from the crowd and towards the edge of the raised courtyard, and the ocean beyond, hoping that the air would be cooler away from the press of bodies, and by the water to boot. Joffrey followed her doggedly, rambling on about his latest hunting trip with his father. Apparently they’d hunted an enormous boar, just the other day, and Joffrey explained in painstaking detail the way they had defeated the poor beast, waxing on about the moment the life had faded from the poor animal’s eyes. Sansa fanned her face frantically, not even attempting to feign interest as the boy prattled on.

Gods, she didn’t know which was worse. The lack of air, the heat, or the insufferable company. Perhaps she’d die from suffocation, and be spared of this whole ordeal. One could only hope.

Joffrey barely seemed to notice her discomfort, though he did catch on that she wasn’t exactly listening to him. He scowled at her. “Am I boring you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Sansa said, reaching for the low stone wall lining the raised courtyard as her head spun. “But that’s the least of my worries.”

Joffrey’s face turned blotchy. She probably shouldn’t have said such a thing, but the lack of oxygen was starting to get to her. Normally she kept up a perfect air of politeness around the Governor’s son. He looked about ready to throttle her, his gaze furious as his fat, wormy lips opened to spout his rancor over her mistreatment of him. But whatever he might have said, Sansa never heard. Finally succumbing to the dizziness washing over her, she blacked out, and toppled over the ledge.

 

* * *

 

_**Petyr:** _

Petyr was just thinking of heading off to find someplace to wile away the time until dark, when he could make off with the ship, when he saw her. A girl, flame haired and clad in a confection of cream and ivory that set off the hue of her hair beautifully, plummeting from the raised courtyard where the party was being held.

It was a steep drop, twenty feet down at least, straight to the water, which was at least a friendlier prospect than stone or earth. Though the sharp rocks protruding from the waves said differently. The girl hit the water, narrowly missing the rocks that spelled certain death, and disappeared quickly under the surface as her dress weighed her down.

Petyr turned to see the two guards watching the bubbles and ripples that had formed from her landing. "You going to be saving her then?"

"I can't swim," Pimply said, face pale. His companion just stood there, mouth gaping, completely useless.

"Pride of the King's Navy you are," Petyr snapped. Fuck. He couldn’t just leave her there to die.  
Her hair had stirred memories in him that he’d spent years repressing. It wasn’t Cat. He knew that. She’d died, years ago, the news reaching him during one of his many raids along this coastline. And yet he still felt compelled to help regardless. Even from beyond the grave, she tormented him.

He groaned and took off his coat, piling his sword, pistol, and compass on the fabric, before running to the edge of the boat and diving in after her. The girl was sinking fast, nearly at the bottom when he saw her, and as he swam closer something stirred from beneath her bodice. Petyr paused as the water reverberated with a strange pulse, sending a chill down his spine, before kicking his legs harder, knowing she’d drown if he delayed any longer.

Within seconds he had reached her, and he slipped his arms around her limp torso, tugging her with him as he struck back towards the surface, using only his legs to propel them upwards. The water wasn’t too deep, and still his lungs ached before they finally broke the surface. Petyr struggled to keep her face above the waves, cursing as she dragged them both back under. The dress, while beautiful, would kill them both if he didn’t act soon.

Quickly, he ripped apart the lacing and pushed it off, along with her voluminous petticoats, so that only her shift and corset remained. She was still far heavier than he would have expected (but then, the unconscious (or dead) often were, especially waterlogged) but much more manageable. Petyr kept her afloat as best as he could as he swam them towards the nearest dock, the two hapless guards from before waiting for them by the edge. They actually helped him get her up and out of the water, though that seemed about the extent of their usefulness. Instead of doing anything to try and rouse her, Portly and Pimply simply stared down at her uncertainly, both blushing scarlet as they realized her dress was gone.

Petyr hauled himself out of the water and grabbed his dagger, running it down the center of her corset before grabbing both edges and yanking hard to separate the fabric. The corset split and the girl reeled up, gasping and coughing water from her lungs. He stared down at her as she recovered, still kneeling by her side, feeling for a moment as if he’d stepped back into time, so familiar were her features.

Even soaked to the skin and expelling water from her lips, she looked beautiful. Pale skin, a shade far lovelier than the dress he’d discarded in the ocean, her hair a delicate shade of copper. Eyes a clear blue that even the most exquisite sapphires couldn’t rival. Her shift, nearly translucent from her trip into the ocean, clung to supple curves, leaving very little to the imagination. She looked so much like the woman he’d long ago given up on, so much like Cat, and yet somehow far more breathtaking. It wasn’t her, of that he was certain, but the similarities were too glaring for her not to be some relation. Perhaps one of Cat’s daughters? Certainly Lysa could never have birthed such perfection.

She trembled as he stared unabashedly down at her, caught entirely off guard, though whether she was quaking from fear or from the cold shock of the water, he wasn’t sure. Petyr tore his gaze from her face, fighting to gain back some semblance of control over himself, then froze as he spotted a familiar coin. His breath caught, and, without thinking, he reached down, lifting the pirate medallion from where it rested on its chain, just above her breasts.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, voice choked.

The girl gazed up at him, wide eyed, but didn’t answer. Petyr clutched the coin in his hand, heart frantic beneath his ribcage as he contemplated the implications. They were coming. And soon.

Before he could do or say anything more, shouts startled him from his reverie, and he dropped the pirate medallion. He glanced up just in time to see yet another blast from his past, a man he’d hoped he’d never have to meet again in this lifetime. Ned Stark, widowed husband of Cat Tully, barrelled forward, a pack of men from the Royal Navy at his heels, and before Petyr could shake the shock from his system, two men had grabbed him from behind, hauling him to his feet.

Ned didn’t pay him any mind initially, his attention focused solely on the girl. Stark’s daughter, Petyr realized. And Cat’s. Oh, the gods were cruel, indeed. Not that he believed in them. But if he did….

Stark played the doting father at first, wrapping a blanket about the girl’s shoulders once she’d been helped to her feet. They embraced, and Ned gave his daughter a once over, checking to make sure she was unharmed.

“You’re okay?” he asked, voice laced with desperation.

She nodded. “Yes, father.”

Ned hugged his daughter again. “Thank the gods,” he breathed. “What happened?”

She gave her father a sheepish smile. “The heat of the day and the new dress you bought for me decided to steal my breath away.”

Ned gave a weak chuckle and turned, his face paling when he spotted Petyr standing there, still flanked by two men. Quicker than Petyr would have thought possible, Ned had drawn his sword, the tip aimed for Petyr’s jugular.

The girl’s eyes flashed in alarm and she darted forward, placing a hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Father, do you really intend to kill my rescuer?"

Ned let out a little noise of frustration, and sheathed his sword in an uncharacteristic show of complacency. Then, quickly, he reached over and grabbed Petyr’s arm, pushing up his sleeve. There, on the inside of Petyr’s wrist was the brand that marked him as a pirate. Ned pushed Petyr’s sleeve higher still, revealing the mockingbird just above it, and shook his head in disgust. "Yes, I do. I had heard the tales, but I had never really believed them until now, Petyr."

"That's Captain Petyr Baelish to you," Petyr said, offering Ned his most winning smirk. Beside him, the girl looked intrigued rather than frightened. Interesting….

Ned frowned, then scoffed, "I don't see your ship."

Petyr shrugged, though it was difficult, since he was currently being strong armed by two devout military men. "I'm in the market, as it were."

One of the guards Petyr had been getting acquainted with earlier shuffled forward and handed over Petyr's things. Ned shuffled through Petyr’s meager belongings and snorted. "One pistol. No additional shots nor powder, and a compass that doesn't point north. You are, without a doubt, the worst pirate I've ever heard of."

"But you have heard of me," Petyr said, his mouth quirking.

Ned glared at him. "Take him away," he said, nodding at the men holding Petyr captive.

"Father, no!" the girl cried, moving to stand in front of Petyr. "Pirate or not, this man saved my life!"

Ned waved his hand dismissively. "Sansa, one good deed is not enough to redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness."

Sansa? ‘A fitting name, for such a beauty,’ Petyr thought as they wrenched his arms behind his back and cuffed him.

"But it seems enough to condemn him," Petyr told Sansa, making his move once they’d finished securing his cuffs, and quickly slipping the chain around her neck. Her back to his front, he pulled her close, her body flush against his, and felt her breath hitch, though some instinct told him it wasn’t from fear. Oh, this was too good.

Everyone gasped, Ned looking absolutely livid as Petyr smirked and enjoyed the feel of Ned’s daughter’s body pressed against his. "My effects, if you please," he directed, nodding at the guard still holding his things.

The guard passed over his coat, his pistol and compass still cradled within the cloth. Sansa took the proffered items, then stiffened as Petyr deftly snatched up his pistol and aimed it at her temple. He leaned forward, his breath tickling the shell of her ear as he crooned, "Sweetling, if you would be so kind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lovely way to have a first meeting, don't you think? ;)
> 
> Hope you liked it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finds herself attracted to a pirate, of all people. Petyr makes his escape.

_**Sansa:** _

 

Sansa licked her lips, her chest rising and falling far more rapidly than was its wont, her heart stuttering in her chest. Her back was pressed against her rescuer’s chest, as he sought to play the only hand he had left, in a last bid for freedom, and his life. Captain Petyr Baelish had saved her from drowning, had torn away that wretched corset and allowed her to breathe freely once more, and then, once he’d been discovered as a pirate, he’d used what little leverage he’d been afforded. His chained hands hand slipped around her neck, even as she’d sought to defend him, and he’d pulled her backwards into his arms.

She should have been frightened out of her mind. Or angry at the very least. Any normal girl might have been. Should have been. And yet she wasn’t. Rather, she’d felt a secret little thrill tingle through her veins as her body slammed against his with a delicious roughness she’d actually _liked_. In front of her, her father looked stricken, his men at a loss for what to do, and yet here she was, actually enjoying herself. It was downright scandalous. And so sinfully exquisite. She craved more.

Even when he’d held his gun to her head, she hadn’t flinched. This man didn’t want to hurt her. She could sense that. He’d rescued her, only minutes earlier, and might have gone on with his day never wishing her harm, but her father had forced his hand. If she did as Captain Petyr Baelish asked, he would escape with his life, and she’d be perfectly safe. The problem was, that though she wanted to help him escape, she also was loathe for his body to leave hers.

When he’d purred into her ear, "Sweetling, if you would be so kind," his gravelly voice had shot straight to the base of her abdomen, a strange pulse that heated her skin suddenly evident between her thighs. She was about to comply with his wishes, and help him with his coat, when he spoke again. “The keys to the cuffs as well, if you please.”

Scowling, Commodore Stark nodded to one of the guards, and he handed over the keys to Sansa. Mindful of the gun still pressed to her temple, she turned and reached up, unlocking the cuffs, her movements more than a little awkward by their close proximity. When she’d released his hands, he stepped back, his gun still carefully aimed. Knowing what he wanted, she helped him shrug on his coat, slipping the pistol back into the holster at his hip, his dagger into its sheath, and his compass into his breast pocket.

Captain Baelish watched her all the while, his eyes (a gorgeous smoky green outlined with black kohl that made the color stand out even more) alight with mischief, his mouth quirked lopsidedly in a smirk that tugged on her heartstrings. When she’d finished, he reached over with one hand and cupped her cheek. “Be assured of my thanks, Miss Stark.”

Sansa unconsciously leaned into his touch, and licked her lips, overcome with a sudden, urgent yearning for him to kiss her.

His eyes glinted, and her breath caught, her heart certain that he was actually about to answer her prayers and kiss her, right there in front of everyone. Then, in one swift movement, he spun her around and shoved her towards her father. She stumbled forward into her father’s arms, then caught her bearings, turning around just in time to see Captain Baelish soar upwards, helped along by ropes meant for retrieving cargo from the ship. Sansa’s breath caught again as he leapt into the rigging and scrambled along to another perch, before grabbing a rope and swinging easily to a nearby scaffolding. All around her, her father’s men were firing their guns as the Captain traversed ropes and narrow beams, using the handcuffs she hadn’t realized he’d kept to slide down a rope that brought him far away from everyone and onto solid ground.

The men lowered their guns, looking momentarily dumbfounded before her father cried, “After him!” and they jerked from their stupor and began their pursuit.

Sansa stood on her tiptoes, searching frantically for a last glimpse as Captain Petyr Baelish melted into the crowd, unable to contain her grin. He’d gotten away! Her smile faltered as Commodore Stark turned to face her, and he huffed and took her arm. “Let’s get you home.”

  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her father refused to speak to her on the way back, though she tried to question him about his obvious past with the elusive Captain Baelish. Far apart from wanting to know more about the man due to her unmistakable attraction, the fact that her father actually knew him was most intriguing. Sansa tried her best to worm any information from Commodore Stark, but her father was nothing if not incredibly stubborn.

Finally, after Sansa had bathed and dressed again, this time in a dress _without_ a corset, she went to visit her father in his study, determined to find answers at all costs. Unfortunately, he wasn’t there, nor could he be found in any of the other rooms in their home. Frustrated, she sought out a servant, her mood turning sour when she learned that her father had gone out, still intent on capturing Captain Baelish.

Her anxiety spiked as she returned to her room, fingering the pirate medallion that lay hidden, just beneath her bodice. She had so many questions. How did her father know Captain Baelish? Why was she so drawn to this man, who was, among other things, a pirate? And earlier, he’d asked her about the coin. Was it a common trinket, among pirates? Somehow, she didn’t think so. His face had temporarily drained of all its color when he’d seen it.

Whatever the case may be, she hoped that he would be able to make it to safety. As a pirate, she knew he wasn’t a good man, and yet he had saved her. She wanted him to escape the gallows, and not solely because she felt a sense of obligation to protect him after he’d rescued her. There was just something about him, something she craved, something that made her want to run out into the streets, find him and run away with him, living the life of an outlaw, out at sea. Were that such a thing were possible….

 

* * *

 

**_Petyr:_ **

So far, lady luck was on Petyr’s side. Perhaps the lady was a certain redheaded maiden, who’d been most obliging during his escape, and had even seemed affected by his touch. If so, perhaps he should swing by Ned’s home once the coast was clear, and steal away little Miss Sansa Stark. It certainly was an alluring prospect.

But he was getting a bit ahead of himself. He was a wanted man, and Ned wasn’t likely to give up chase without an exhaustively thorough search, their pasts with one another driving his fervor. Though Petyr _had_ given them all the slip quite easily, his skills in climbing coming in more than a little useful during his mad escape.

Now, Petyr was attempting to keep a low profile, weaving through the crowd in an unhurried manner as he sought a forge. He’d been forced to leave without his sword earlier, and any pirate worth his salt kept himself armed wherever he went. Not to mention, he needed more than a dagger and a pistol with one shot, if he had any hopes of defending himself if and when Ned and his men caught up with him. He wasn’t the most skilled of swordsmen, but years of practice had allowed him some adequacy.

People paid him little mind as he wandered about, despite the fact that his clothes and hair were still damp from his brief excursion beneath the waves. Long ago, Petyr had learned the art of blending into the background, going unnoticed as he took in every detail, and struck when the opportunity was ripe, a dagger flashing silver in the dark. It was a useful skill, one that had kept him alive, even in his darkest moments, and he was grateful for it now, more than ever.

After about fifteen minutes, he found the right district, having remembered the layout of the town from his youth. He quietly slipped inside a forge that seemed presently empty, checking to make sure he was correct before surveying the offerings available. Just as Petyr was testing one of the flashier options, the door to the forge banged open, revealing a girl.

They stared at each other for a moment, seizing each other up, before the girl frowned. "You're that pirate. You threatened my sister."

Petyr raised his eyebrows. The girl didn’t look anything like Sansa Stark. Where Sansa was tall and womanly, her hair kissed by fire, features delicate, this girl was short and wiry, with dark brown hair and eyes, and prominent eyebrows. She was wearing men’s clothing, too, and as Petyr watched, she unsheathed a sword from a scabbard at her hip and brandished it at him.

He chuckled, noting how her gaze darkened. "You think this wise, girl? Crossing blades with a pirate?"

She stepped forward menacingly, the fury in her expression overcompensating for her short stature. "Guess you'll find out," she taunted.

Petyr suspected it was best not to underestimate this girl, though it seemed he didn’t have a choice about whether or not they fought. She definitely appeared determined to do so, anyway. No matter. Even if she were exemplary, he still had an ace up his sleeve.

He raised his borrowed sword to meet hers, and they began. It started out slow, as they each judged the skills of the other, and Petyr knew he’d been right to be cautious around the girl. Her skills were far better than he’d expected, especially considering it wasn’t common for highborn ladies to learn such things.

He didn’t reveal that to her, however. No point in bolstering the confidence of someone who had little need of it. Still, he wanted to test her, to see just how much she’d learned, sneaking away in secret for years, more than likely. "Good form, I'll give you that,” he commented loftily. “But how's your footwork?"

The girl’s eyes brightened and their swords clashed as they began to move about the room. Yet again, he was impressed, and quickly realizing he was out of his depth, but he wasn’t worried. Their strikes grew more heated, until finally he gave it up as a lost cause (he’d already lingered far too long as it was, anyway) and allowed her to disarm him. She grinned at him in triumph for a moment before he tossed her a smirk and withdrew his pistol, aiming for her heart.

Her face fell. "You cheated."

Petyr shrugged. "I'm a pirate. Now drop that sword and I'll be on my way."

"No," she tossed back defiantly.

He held back a groan and cocked the gun. "This shot was not meant for you," he said warningly.

The girl lifted her chin, stubbornly not backing down. Petyr narrowed his eyes at her, then stiffened as he saw her eyes flick to something behind him. Before he could react, something smacked into the back of his head, and he crumpled to the ground, his vision going black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Hopefully I'll be able to post more often now that Nanowrimo is done :).
> 
> A heads up. This is going to be a slower burn than usual, not so much in terms of time, but in how many chapters before they get together. But I think you'll still like it :D.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gold calls to us… More pirates visit Port Royal.

_**Sansa:** _

Sansa hadn’t seen her father again until dinner, when she was met with the unpleasant news that Captain Petyr Baelish had officially been caught, and was now residing in the local jail, awaiting the gallows. Her sister had bustled in, partway through the meal, eyes dancing as she gave them a full account of how she’d sparred with the pirate before her friend Gendry had caught him unawares and knocked him out. Arya seemed positively thrilled that she’d actually fought a pirate and held her own, and kept pestering their father for more details concerning the unlucky Captain, though Commodore Stark steadfastly refused to oblige her wishes.

It was with a heavy heart that Sansa retired to her room that evening, not ready yet for bed, but requiring some time away from Arya and her father, both so pleased at Captain Baelish’s capture, while Sansa felt entirely differently. She could still remember the moment she’d first seen his face, haloed by the bright sun as she sputtered and coughed from her near drowning. He’d met her gaze unflinchingly, grey-green eyes reflecting something like concern before they’d shifted, having spotted the medallion dangling from the necklace she’d neglected to take off earlier.

It was obvious that the coin meant something, though whether its significance was strictly related to Captain Baelish or to all pirates in a broader sense had yet to be determined. Had her father only been delayed a few moments later, she might have found out. Now, with certain death looming for the pirate, it would likely continue to be a mystery.

Sansa toyed with the pirate medallion still strung about her neck as she pondered its origins, reluctant to take it off. Something had compelled her to wear it this morning, something she was certain had bordered well beyond the nightmare she’d had. She’d had that nightmare countless times, and yet never before had she seen fit to actually don the necklace, merely content with turning it about in her fingers for a few minutes before returning it to its hiding place. And yet today, the one day she happened to meet a pirate, she’d actually worn it, the explanation so close and yet just out of reach.

It felt like fate, a rather silly notion that she’d tried to break herself of fantasizing about as she grew older. Though she was far wiser than the girl whose head had been solely filled with songs and tales, sometimes she couldn’t help wistfully retreating back to her former mindset. It was understandable that she’d do so. After all, stories and songs were far more pleasant than the cruelty and mediocrity of real life.

Her heart skittered as her mind flitted to the moment Captain Baelish had pulled her so close, using her as a rather convenient method of escape, that had sadly proved fruitless in the end. She should have been disgusted, so close to someone considered filth by proper society, but the reality was far from it. Rather, she’d felt a thrill, tingles spreading from every point of contact, a sharp jolt of heat as he called her sweetling, mint caressing the term of endearment in a way that forever entwined the two in her mind.

He hadn’t been at all like she’d expected a pirate would be. Sansa had always imagined pirates to be, well, to put it bluntly, unwashed and uncivilized, clothes tattered and covered with stains, manner uncouth, eyes leering as they brashly undressed her with their eyes, careless of propriety. The Captain hadn’t been any of those things, though she was ashamed to admit that she rather wished he’d liked her enough to leer at her. She’d even been half dressed below him, had her corset ripped apart by him, and yet he’d seemed more concerned (and taken aback, likely due to the pirate medallion) than lecherous. The fact that he’d undressed her earlier (even if it had been out of necessity rather than another more sinful purpose) made her cheeks flame, though not out of embarrassment.

Captain Baelish had even looked quite presentable. His clothes had been a bit worn, but quite clean despite his recent dip into the ocean, his hair (dark with patches of grey at the temples that, though she was certain he hadn’t earned them, suited him quite well) neatly trimmed, though damp and windblown. And, while his cheeks had been peppered with stubble, his goatee and moustache were short and neat, better maintained in fact that the facial hair of most men she’d seen in town. In addition, he hadn’t smelled as if he’d gone months without a proper washing, and his breath had actually been fresher than nearly every other person she’d met, tinged with a hint of mint. Only the kohl rimming his eyes, the silk knotted around his brow, and the tattoos on his inner forearm betrayed truly that he was anything other than the average citizen in Port Royal.

As for his manner, she felt overall that he’d been very polite, considering the circumstances. Her father had been more than a little demeaning towards him, and yet the Captain had taken it all in stride, though not without a rather admirable hint of snark. Captain Baelish had even thanked her for assisting in his escape, though really she thought the sentiment entirely unnecessary. After all, he’d saved her life earlier. It was the least she could do.

If only Arya hadn’t apprehended him later, at the forge where Gendry worked. It was rotten luck, to be sure.

Sansa wished that she could find some way to help him again. Her heart ached at the thought that he might very well die, all because he’d decided to rescue her earlier that day.

Just as her thoughts had turned slightly antagonistic towards her younger sister, Arya appeared in her doorway, inciting the rather superstitious notion in Sansa’s mind that her sister had known what she was just thinking.

“Heard you took a little dip in the ocean today,” Arya drawled, eyes alighting on the coin Sansa was twisting on its chain, though she refrained from commenting on it for the moment, preferring to get in a friendly dig at her sister instead.

“Oh yes,” Sansa replied laconically. “It was quite refreshing. Anything to escape Joffrey, and the insufferable heat of the day.”

Arya grinned at her before her expression sobered. “I’m glad you’re alright. To nearly drown, and then be held hostage by a pirate…” She blew out a breath of air. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

Sansa frowned. “It wasn’t all that bad.” Arya gave her an incredulous look, and Sansa continued. “I mean it. I’m not sure what father told you, but Captain Baelish saved me, risking his own life to rescue me from drowning. When father realized that he was a pirate, he had immediately set his mind to arresting the Captain, regardless of his actions. Captain Baelish only used me to escape as a last resort, and I’m certain that he’d never truly planned on hurting me.”

Arya still looked skeptical, but she chose to let it go. “Well, whatever the case, only the gods can help him now,” she said, gazing out the window at flickers of movement in the streets below.

Sansa turned to look outside as well, drawn by the sudden bursts of noise reaching her ears. Her mouth dropped as she registered the screams echoing through the town, punctuated by gunfire and the rattles of buildings as explosives rocked their foundation. Arya gaped down at the carnage below as they watched men fighting in the streets, women scurrying out of harm’s way only to be snatched and forced into darkened alleys.

“Pirates!” Arya gasped. “They’re invading the town!”

Without another word, Arya scrambled from the room. Alarmed, Sansa followed her sister, reeling back sharply when her sister drew her sword from its hiding place, a determined glint in her eyes.

“Oh, no, you’re not going out there,” Sansa insisted, grabbing at her sister’s arm.

Arya shrugged her off. “Father’s not here. Someone needs to protect the house.”

“And you think that’s you? We have guards, Arya!” Sansa hissed, following her sister down the stairs.

Before Arya could retort, the front doors burst open, and both of their household guards met a grisly end, a sword through the belly and a gunshot to the head. Sansa and Arya halted on the landing, horrorstruck as the men bled out on the marble floor, two grizzled looking pirates staring amusedly up at them.

“Well well well, look what we have here,” the shorter of the two called out. “Seems we’ve hit the jackpot, eh Sandor?” He nudged his friend with a knowing look.

The other man rolled his eyes. “Let’s get this over with,” he grunted, striding towards the stairs with a purposeful gait.

As if jerked from a trance, Sansa grabbed her sister’s arm and tried to tug her upstairs, stumbling backwards as Arya refused to budge. “Come on!” she pleaded.

“No,” Arya said, shaking her head. “You go. I’ll hold them off.”

“I’m not leaving you!” Sansa said frantically, trying once more to haul her sister up the stairs.

Arya shoved her away, bolting downstairs as Sansa tumbled down hard. “Go!” Arya yelled over her shoulder, hurtling towards the men with fierce determination, ready to strike.

Sansa struggled to her feet, hesitating for a moment, torn. She wouldn’t be of any use in a fight, especially without a weapon. If she followed Arya she’d only get them both killed. Resolved, Sansa fled back upstairs, a silent prayer streaming through her mind as she bolted for her father’s office, intent on grabbing the ceremonial sword he kept there.

She’d just hefted the blade when the door crashed open, splintering from its hinges. The taller man ducked through the doorframe, a grimace twisting his face as he stalked towards her. Trembling, Sansa backed away, waving the sword through the air in hopes of keeping him at bay.

Nonplussed, the man easily knocked the sword from her grasp with a quick parry, his pursuit relentless until her back hit the wall. Her eyes widened as she took in the state of his face, half of his skin twisted and raw, evidence of a horrific encounter with fire. His eyes bored into her, expressionless, until finally, he spoke. “Hello, little bird.”

Sansa shrank back, even as the wall behind her told her there was no escape. The man leered at the hemline of her bodice for a moment before meeting her gaze once more. “You've got something of ours,” he breathed. “The gold calls to us.”

Her gaze dropped to the coin, nestled just out of sight between her breasts, and she stiffened in understanding. Steeling her resolve, she forced herself to stand tall, meeting his eyes with a determination Arya would have been proud of. “Where is my sister?” she demanded.

The man chuckled. “I expect Bronn’ll have taken care of her, by now. Feisty little one.”

Sansa gulped, pushing down the rush of grief and fear. She had to be strong. Perhaps Arya was still out there, holding her own against the other pirate. And Sansa would have to do the same. They wanted the coin. Badly enough that they’d apparently ravaged the whole town in search of it. Perhaps she could bargain, spare their lives.

Raising her chin with a feigned show of the confidence she was severely lacking in at the moment, she said the magic word, the one she hoped would bring an end to this massacre. “Parlay.”

The man raised his eyebrows quizzically, just as his companion stumbled into the room. “Fuck, that little spitfire was quite the handful. Nearly lost another eye to that one.” He sounded almost alarmingly nonchalant about that, and Sansa wondered if such injuries were really that commonplace among pirates, then flushed at her clear naivety. Of course they were.

Gathering her courage again, she turned back to the burned man and repeated her request. He shared a look with the other man and then they both laughed. Sansa’s heart sank. “Parlay,” she repeated again, voice shaking. This had to work. It just had to. “I invoke parley. You have to take me to your captain. According to the code-"

The burned man’s face darkened. "Fuck the code."

“But-” she began again, only for the other man to give her a careful look of consideration.

"No, she wants to be taken to the captain, and she'll go willingly,” he said seriously, giving the burned man a meaningful look. “We must honor the code."

The burned man looked less than pleased, but he nodded nonetheless. And, before Sansa could fully contemplate the repercussions of her request, her feet left the ground, and she was tossed over the burned man’s shoulder, carried off into the night, the air thick with screams and shrouded with smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr wallows in his jail cell, and makes a startling discovery when his past visits him yet again.

_**Petyr:** _

Petyr was alone in his jail cell, a fact which he most thankful for. The cell next to him was crowded with the unwashed bodies of his brethren, and while he wouldn’t have minded the companionship, simple as it was, he simply couldn’t abide the smell. It was quite bad enough, just to be in the neighboring cell.

Aside from the foul odors wafting through the cramped space, his head was still smarting from whoever had attacked him from behind, though not nearly as much as his ego. The bruise, coupled with the stench, was contributing to a most unwelcome headache that throbbed at his temples, pressing behind his eyeballs insistently. At least his clothes had finally dried from his impromptu dip in the ocean to rescue a certain Miss Stark. And, of course, he still had the memory of her, soaked to the skin and dressed only in her shift, nearly see-through in its dampened state, revealing every curve. That memory alone kept the pain of his misfortunes at bay.

The men in the cell next to his spent their time hopelessly attempting to plot their escape, to little avail, as their plans seemed to chiefly involve encouraging the stray dog lurking about to fetch the keys for them, luring the animal with a proffered bone. Petyr ignored them, knowing it was of little use. That dog was never going to help them. And they would all die, more victims to the noose.

He was, of course, trying to work out his own plan of escape, though his methods were far more sophisticated than luring an animal to do his bidding. When the guards were otherwise occupied, he swept the cell for any information that might aid him, searching for weak spots in the bars or mortar, or anything useful left abandoned among the straw littering the floor. He thought that he might be able to break through the cell bars with the proper leverage, but aside from himself and a built in bench, the cell was empty. There was a possibility he could throw himself against the bars and knock them loose, but in all probability he’d just wind up hurting himself instead. Or, wind up on the rather disgusting floor, at the very least. It wasn’t worth the chance.

As the day waned, the jail cells darkening save for the flicker of a few torches, sounds of turmoil reached his ears from outside. Frowning, Petyr got up to peer through the barred window, raising his eyebrows when he spotted the telltale signs of a pirate raid, complete with cannon fire and a familiar ship, off in the distance. Of all of the times for Euron to attack this particular port, Petyr had to be stuck in a jail cell while his mutinous crew sacked the city. Sometimes Petyr really wondered at his luck….

This train of thought was further exacerbated when a volley of cannonfire struck the jail, leaving a large gash in the wall that predominantly extended into the cell next to his. The pirates there made their fortunate escape with gleeful expressions, the last man to leave stopping only briefly to offer him a pitying look. Petyr eyed the small break in the wall that the cannonfire had afforded him with distaste, the space barely enough to fit his head through. Of course….

The sound of a door banging open drew his attention back around, and he turned as two men shuffled in, voices excited. They stopped as they spotted him, and the more well groomed of the two gave him a nasty smile. Petyr’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the pair, men he’d only taken in as his crew on Euron’s insistence, though of course they’d only been with him for a week before the mutiny. Ramsay (oft referred to as Rams by the crew) and Reek, two of the most disgusting and deplorable pirates he’d ever had the misfortune to meet. Both had a taste for excessive violence, taking extreme pleasure in causing distress to any poor soul they strayed across. Ramsay had a penchant for using attack dogs, when he could, while Reek was known for the incredible stench he was named for, many of his victims passing out from the smell rather than from the torture he inflicted.

“Well well well,” Ramsay sneered, looking absolutely delighted. “If it isn’t the famed Mockingbird. Correct me if I’m wrong, but we haven’t seen each other since the day we took your precious ship, and left you all alone to die on that island. I guess your fortunes haven’t improved much.” He shared a look with Reek and they both cackled.

Petyr cocked his head to the side, maintaining an expression of indifference even as his words said differently. "Worry about your own fortunes gentlemen. The deepest circles of hell are reserved for mutineers."

Ramsay snarled and grabbed Petyr through the bars, his hand fisting in Petyr’s coat. Petyr glanced down at the hand in alarm. Where once had been flesh, calloused and dirty but still whole and alive, only bone remained, scattered with fragments of decayed muscle and ligaments. And yet the rest of Ramsay remained as before. Only a sliver of moonlight passing over his hand revealed anything amiss.

Petyr raised his gaze to meet Ramsay’s, a tiny flicker of hope sparking in the back of his mind. “So there is a curse,” he said, unable to contain his smirk as he spoke. The rumors were true, then. All of them. “Interesting.”

Ramsay’s fist tightened for a moment, then released him. "You know nothing of hell," he spat, before grabbing Reek. “Come. Let’s leave the ‘Captain’ here to rot. We’re missing all the fun.”

Petyr watched them leave, mulling over what he’d just learned. Oh, this was good. Very good. He returned to the window to peer out at his ship, mind working in over time. This certainly complicated matters, but he was nothing if not flexible. He could work with this. With the raid on the town, his execution would likely be stayed, in favor of more pressing matters, and he’d have more time to formulate an escape. And now he knew just what had driven Euron and his crew to come here, and where to find them once he was free.

He only hoped Miss Stark hadn’t been harmed during their search for the coin. She’d saved his life, after all (or at least helped him get away after her stubborn father persisted in his arrest). And there was something else to it, as well. Try as he might deny it, he was intrigued by Sansa Stark. She hadn’t been afraid when he’d threatened her, far from it. In fact, it had almost seemed as if she were enjoying herself, the way her breath caught as he pressed up against her from behind, not from fear, but from something far more delicious. Perhaps he should have found a way to take her with him. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been apprehended by her sister in the forge….

Petyr shook his head, trying to clear his mind of her flame kissed hair and ocean blue eyes. He needed to focus. Now was not the time to lose his head over another woman. He’d nearly died once for Cat, he didn’t need to do it again for her daughter. Even if she seemed far more receptive to his advances….

He couldn’t have imagined that. Right?

He cursed aloud. Whatever Sansa Stark might have felt at the time was of no consequence to him. His priorities were to get back his ship, whatever the cost. Love and affection had never been kind to him, but The Mockingbird’s Song would never fail him. If a man couldn’t have a woman, a ship was the next best thing. And his was the finest of them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have caught the captain's name in this chapter :). I think he makes a rather fitting Captain Barbossa stand in, don't you?
> 
> Also, Reek, in this story, is the original Reek (The man from the books who served Ramsay before Ramsay pretended to be Reek to trick Theon). Not Theon.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa attempts to bargain with the pirates sacking Port Royal. Arya learns that Sansa has been taken, and resolves to do something about it.

**_Sansa:_ **

 

As Sansa was hauled up on deck, the crowd of men parted for the ship’s captain. Tall and broad shouldered, he strode forward with a confident swagger, a small monkey perched on his shoulder. He was dressed all in black, much like Captain Baelish had been, but his clothes were far more tattered, crusted with sea salt and stains that looked horribly like blood.

“I didn’t realize I said anything about taking captives,” the captain sneered, eyes slightly maniacal as he leered at her. His eyes were black, lids darkened with kohl, lending an even more intimidating appearance to the mania lurking beneath.

The burned man grunted and shrugged. “She invoked parlay.”

“Did she now?” The captain gave her a mocking smile and cocked his head to the side, his cruel amusement at her presumption palpable.

Sansa stood her ground, regardless, though all around her the crew was watching her as if she were a piece of meat, and they were hungry dogs salivating after a tasty prize. Some were snickering, nudging their companions as they traded bawdy jokes about her. “I’m here under the protection of parlay,” she began, somehow managing to keep the tremble out of her voice, “to negotiate the cessation of hostilities against Port Royal.”

The captain laughed, the sound high and cruel, laced with a hint of hysteria. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, despite how his manner was unnerving her.

“And what, pray tell, might a girl such as yourself have that would convince me and my crew to stop these ‘hostilities,’ as they were?” he asked.

Feeling braver, Sansa reached for the pirate medallion dangling around her neck, unclasping the chain so that she might hold it up for all to see. “This.”

To her surprise, the captain seemed unaffected by the piece. “One coin against the plunder of a whole town? Hardly seems a fair trade.” The crew around them grunted in agreement.

Sansa frowned. “But you’ve been searching for it,” she said, trying not to sound discouraged. “The men who brought me here, said ‘the gold calls to us.’”

The captain laughed. “Aye, that is true. Gold calls to us. And silver and jewels, and anything else of value.” His gaze raked over her. “Pretty girls, too.”

She stiffened. No, he had to be lying. Right? Thinking quickly, she darted to the edge of the ship and dangled the coin from its chain, over the surging water below. “Well, then. If you don’t want it….” she taunted daringly, praying that her gamble would prove fruitful.

The captain merely raised his eyebrows at her, so she loosened her grip, allowing the chain to slip dangerously through her fingers. There was a collective gasp and nearly everyone took a step forward, towards her, and the medallion. Satisfied, Sansa retracted her arm back into the boat, carefully refastening the necklace around her neck with a smug look. She had them, and they knew it.

“What’s your name?” the captain asked, stalking closer with an unmistakable hunger in his cold eyes.

Sansa blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question. “Sansa,” she said, before she could think better of it. It was likely not the best idea to reveal her true name, being a commodore’s daughter. She didn’t know how learned the pirates might be concerning the royal military, but she felt it best not to test it. Instead, she cast about for another surname, settling on Gendry’s. “Sansa Waters,” she finished, somewhat lamely.

The crew broke out in murmurs, and Sansa suddenly realized her mistake. Why had she used _Gendry’s_ last name, of all the options? He’d been in possession of the pirate medallion when she helped rescue him, all those years ago. It was possible these men knew him.

The captain’s eyes gleamed. “Well then,” he said with relish, nodding to someone unseen behind her. “Welcome aboard the Mockingbird’s Song, Miss Waters.”

Two men seized her from behind, and she cried out, wrenching free to follow him as he strode away, barking orders for the crew to ready the ship. “Wait!” She grabbed his arm, trying not to flinch at the filth coating her fingers from the grimy fabric. “Our bargain?”

He laughed, and its chill shocked down her spine, so palpable was the malice woven throughout its timbre. “I’m ceasing hostilities, Miss Waters. As per your request.”

“But, you have to take me ashore,” Sansa insisted. “The Code states that-”

His expression darkened, and it was clear he was no longer merely amused by her feeble attempts at negotiation. “I’m afraid you failed to mention that as part of your demands. Better luck next time, I guess.” He offered her a grin that sent her skin crawling, then continued. “As for the Pirate’s Code, it only applies to pirates, and it’s more what you’d call guidelines than actual rules. If you were hoping for strict adherence to law and order, you’d have best stayed ashore, rather than attempt to meddle with things you couldn’t begin to understand.”

Sansa quailed under his gaze, and this time, when men from the crew took hold of her, she did not struggle. What had she done? How could she have possibly presumed that this would work? One chance encounter with a pirate, and she’d gone off on a flight of fancy, thinking she could use that wretched medallion to save her town. How could she have been so stupid?

 

* * *

 

_**Arya:** _

 

Arya was through with fighting pirates. She could have bested the lot of them, had they only fought fair, but that pirate that had saved her sister from drowning earlier had pulled a pistol on her after she’d disarmed him, and the grizzled man she’d fought tonight had taken advantage of the fact that she was actually wearing a skirt for once, stepping on the ends so that she would trip. Then he’d taken her sword and stuffed her in a cupboard, sliding the blade through the handles so that she couldn’t break free.

She’d been in the dark space for hours, cramped and furious and overcome with worry about Sansa, before her father had finally returned home and found her. Together, along with some of her father’s regiment, they’d searched the house for Sansa, but to no avail. Sansa was gone, and it felt to Arya like it was all her fault. If only she hadn’t changed for dinner, knowing her father would hate to see her in the men’s clothes she was far more comfortable wearing. Commodore Stark was generally fairly lenient, but he always insisted she dress properly for mealtimes, since usually they were accompanied by guests, often from the Royal Navy. But there hadn’t been anyone that night besides her father and Sansa, making her change of clothes entirely unnecessary.

Arya had wanted to stay up with her father, to help search for clues as to Sansa’s whereabouts and to strategize for how to rescue her, but he’d refused. Fuming, she’d stalked off to her room and spent the night practicing with Needle, her sword, imagining skewering pirate after pirate along its sharp end. As she worked, she imagined ways in which the men she fought might try to cheat, and thought up ways to counter them. Next time, she wouldn’t fail. She’d bypass their stupid tricks and save her sister, whatever the cost.

The next morning, just before sunrise, she crept out of the house and to Gendry’s forge, a plan formed in her mind. Pirates had taken Sansa from her, and she would do anything to get her sister back. Including going straight to the source, looking for answers. It was just lucky there so happened to be a pirate at the local jail, already acquainted with Sansa and in her debt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts appreciated <333


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr gets another unexpected visit the morning after the pirate raid on Port Royal.

_**Petyr:** _

The loss of Petyr’s cellmates, freed from the blast in the raid last night, meant that he’d actually slept better than he might have expected, considering his current location. Though he was still confined, with only stone and bits of straw afforded for comfort, at least it was quiet, and he could breathe far easier, no longer suffocated by the scent of unwashed men. If there was one thing he rather detested about being a pirate, it was the lack of proper hygiene of his fellows.

Sure, it was a spot more difficult to keep clean at sea, but if he managed it well enough, then they could as well. Perhaps they’d all been robbed of their sense of smell, and he’d never been informed of that particular ritual, or perhaps they actually enjoyed living in their own filth. Whatever the case, that was one particular aspect of piracy that he’d have no part of.

He’d woken up with the sun, though, having nothing better to do, he hadn’t stirred, choosing to remain seated with his legs stretched out, back propped against the wall. After several fruitless attempts to fall back asleep, he gave it up as a lost cause and let his thoughts drift, going over the options available to him thus far concerning his escape. Petyr was beginning to think he should try his luck with coaxing that stray to retrieve the keys for him when he heard the door creak open, and footsteps padding towards his cell.

“Do you know them?” a girl demanded, speaking without preamble.

Petyr cracked an eye open, immediately recognizing the girl from the forge yesterday. Miss Stark’s sister. Beside her stood a boy a few years older than her, dark haired, clothes and skin blackened with soot. More than likely, that boy was the reason for his current imprisonment. The lump on the back of Petyr’s head throbbed with this realization, though he’d barely felt any pain for hours. Maintaining indifference, Petyr closed his eye again, and silently willed them to go away. Whatever cause that had brought that girl to his cell, he wanted no part of it. The girl repeated the question.

Petyr opened his eyes, staring at her from where he lounged against the wall. Just as she had been yesterday, she was garbed in men’s clothes, her brown hair tied haphazardly back from her face. A sword dangled from her hip, it’s length apt for her short stature.

Though her words were vague, Petyr knew exactly to whom she was referring. “If we were allies, do you think I’d still be locked up here?” he asked tiredly, deciding he might as well figure out what she wanted. Either he’d get her out of here faster, or he’d learn something of use for later.

The girl kicked the bars, her face contorted in a sudden burst of rage. “Do you know the ship? The captain?”

He kept his face impassive, though his interest was piqued. Whatever she wanted from him, it was a matter of great importance. If he played his cards right, he might have leverage to encourage her to aid in his escape. “Aye.”

“Well?” she snarled impatiently. Beside her, the blacksmith boy crossed his arms in a show of intimidation. Try as he might, the pint sized female next to him did a far better job of it, though Petyr wasn’t perturbed.

“Captain Euron Greyjoy, of the Mockingbird’s Song,” Petyr replied.

The girl scowled at him through the bars. “That ship’s only a myth.”

Petyr raised his eyebrows. “Then I suppose a myth has attacked your beloved town then, hmm?”

She growled in frustration. “And where does it make berth?”

His mouth quirked. “They sail from the fabled Isla de Muerta, an island that cannot be found except by those who already know where it is,” he said, voice lowered to lace his words with further mystery, a small indulgence to his more theatrical nature.

Her eyes narrowed for a moment before she cast her gaze to ground, brow furrowed. “If the ship is real, then this island must be as well”, she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Petyr took advantage of her momentary indecision to pry for more information. “Why the sudden interest? They run off with something special of yours? Or were you fancying crossing blades with another pirate?”

The girl’s face twisted and she grabbed the bars, rattling them with tightened fists. “They took my sister!” she snarled.

“Oh? And how might that be my problem?” He feigned ignorance, for he thought it better not to reveal what he already knew; the less she thought he knew, the less of a threat he was to her, and the more likely it was that she’d trust him, at least in part. He had to convince her that she had the upper hand. Of course, the girl had already revealed yesterday that Sansa was her sister, but if she remembered doing so, he could always pretend that the concussion had affected his memory, or that he hadn’t thought their exchange noteworthy at the time.

But though outwardly he seemed unaffected, inwardly his heart sank. Euron had taken Sansa Stark….

Mind working quickly, Petyr sought a reason that Euron might have taken Sansa rather than just the medallion. He pushed aside the thought that she might be merely a plaything for the crew, in favor of one that might be a far kinder fate for her, and a more fortuitous opportunity for him. Mayhaps they’d thought that she might aid their quest in breaking the curse? That her blood would suffice? It would be a natural conclusion for them to make. After all, she had the coin….

If that indeed was the case, perhaps he could play Sansa’s misfortune to his advantage.

“Because she saved your life, you ungrateful scum!” The girl withdrew what turned out to be a rock from her pocket, and hurled it at him through the bars

Petyr ducked and sat up straighter, letting his features settle into easily read realization. He had to be careful, now. If he played this just right…. “You’re Miss Stark’s sister?” He paused, then frowned for the girl’s benefit. “The two of you look nothing alike, but I suppose I can see a small family resemblance.” Another beat, and he nodded at the blacksmith. “And who’s this?”

“Gendry Waters,” the boy grunted, sounding reluctant.

The name struck Petyr unawares, and recognition flashed briefly across his countenance before he managed to stifle it. Carefully, he prodded the girl towards the conclusion he was seeking. “And what were the two of you hoping to do with this information? As tolerable as you are with a sword, Miss Stark, I hardly think even you could take on Euron and his crew. That is, if you somehow managed to secure yourself a ship and find the island that cannot be found.”

“What makes you think my father didn’t send me?” she asked haughtily.

Oh, she had just asked the perfect question. This might just work….

Petyr laughed. “Your father abhorred even the notion of a lowly pirate rescuing his daughter from certain drowning. He wouldn’t send you here, nor would he deign to come himself. My word, helpful as it may be, is not to be trusted, at least in his mind. Not even with his daughter’s life dependent on it.”

“He’s right,” she said to Gendry, sounding deflated. “Father wouldn’t use what we’ve learned, not when _he’s_ the source.” She kicked the bars again, then spoke the words Petyr had been waiting for. “But we can’t just sit back and do nothing.”

“Then don’t,” Petyr said simply. Though his heart was hammering, he was careful to maintain an air of nonchalance. It had to be her idea….

She glowered at him, then gave a determined nod, taking the bait. “Right.” She squared her shoulders. “We’re going to rescue her, and _you’re_ going to help us. You’ll help us get a ship, and show us where the island is.”

Petyr cocked an eyebrow, staring up at her from his relaxed position. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she replied, gaze turned steely.

He shrugged. “Spring me from this cell, and we have a deal.”

“Really?” she asked warily. She looked taken aback. More than likely, it seemed too easy.

Petyr shrugged again, pretending to be unconcerned about his own fate. “If you’ve someone else you can turn to, go on ahead. If not, then I imagine you’ll just have to trust me.”

Gendry and the girl shared a look before she nodded, if rather reluctantly. “Can you break him out?” she asked her friend.

The boy nodded. “I helped build these jail cells. With the proper leverage, the door should lift free.”

Petyr hid his euphoria, though he couldn’t repress his nearly ever present smirk. It seemed Sansa Stark had saved him, yet again, if rather unintentionally this time (actually, last time as well). Perhaps he might even return the favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the longer wait than usual. Been struggling with this fic lately, trying to fix plot issues that cropped up, so I've been hesitant to post updates. Still struggling, but I am fairly confident that this chapter won't be affected by any changes. Hope you liked it!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa regrets her decision to invoke parlay, and wonders what's going to happen to her if no one comes to her rescue. Thinking of a certain pirate helps keep her mind steady while she waits. Arya, Petyr, and Gendry make plans.

_**Sansa:** _

They’d shut Sansa away in one of the more private rooms available on the ship, taking the medallion with them before they left. Despite her terror, she was grateful that they hadn’t shut her in the brig, or worse, down in the crew’s quarters. She didn’t think she could stand another moment of their creeping gazes clawing beneath her clothes unsolicited.

It was a sleepless night, spent huddled in the corner of the room on the floor, her knees drawn to her chest and her face pressed into her folded arms, skin goose pimpling from the cold. Her throat felt tight, eyes strained with unshed tears, but try as she might to relieve the pressure, she couldn’t cry. Either her fear and shock were so great that her body couldn’t figure out just how to respond, or she didn’t have enough moisture in her body to do so. Both, more than likely. She was so very thirsty….

They left her alone, for the most part, though occasionally she heard poorly concealed whispers outside of her door, or the chittering of the captain’s monkey. Whenever she had the opportunity to do so, she listened closely, trying to ferret out what information she could, as well as to do something to occupy her time, keeping the fear and anxiety of her situation at bay. She learned that the captain had the surname of Greyjoy, though many of the crew often referred to him as Euron.

The captain’s monkey was called Petyr, something that both surprised her and made her think of the man that had saved her only that afternoon (had it really only been earlier that day, when she’d met him?). She wondered if perhaps Captain Baelish had any connections to the men on this ship, or if it was merely a coincidence. And she wondered too if maybe he’d managed another daring escape, perhaps while the town was in disarray from the pirate raid. She hoped so.

The burned man, whose voice she recognized easily, was called Sandor, though he also went by the Hound, and partway through the night he decided to take vigil at her door, scaring away any potential visitors. Sansa wasn’t sure what she had done to deserve such kindness from the man, but was grateful nonetheless. More than likely, without the Hound keeping watch, she might have been subjected to advances from the crew, a fate more than a little terrifying for a young maiden such as her.

This thought, more than anything, made her realize just how foolish she’d been to invoke parlay. She should have just given them the damned medallion and been done with it. The Hound probably would have insisted that they leave her unharmed, judging by his current position as her guard. And right now, she’d be snuggled in her bed, plagued with questions to be sure, but safe.

It was just like her, to get carried away with grand notions of being a heroine, saving her town and the people in it. Life wasn’t a fairy tale or a song, every moment proved that. Sansa had thought she’d gotten rid of those silly aspirations, that she’d grown up. Men weren’t always knights in shining armor, and ladies weren’t always rescued. The world was a terrible place, filled with terrible things. People died, far before their time, and soon, it seemed, she would be one of them. All because she’d still clung to the fairy tale. She was a foolish, stupid girl, and her dreams of adventure and grandeur were going to get her killed.

The worst part was that part of her was still holding out hope. Hope of rescue. By her father, or perhaps by the dashing Captain Baelish, who’d already saved her once. The first seemed far more likely, of course. Her father was a Commodore in the Royal Navy, with enough resources to come and bring her back, if only he could find her. Whereas Captain Baelish was likely still in a jail cell, and probably hadn’t given her a second thought since he’d left her, still soaked to the bone from rescuing her from drowning.

And yet, of the two men, her heart rather wished that Captain Baelish would be the one to come to her aid. A fact which was most disconcerting. Why her mind and heart had so firmly attached to the pirate, she couldn’t tell, but it seemed she couldn’t untangle him from her thoughts. Even now, she could still see him, that smirk dancing beneath her closed eyelids. He was haunting her, and, strangely enough, it was most welcome. It had been years since she’d properly fancied a man, and though this was a match which couldn’t possibly be indulged, it was still nice to want someone again. And, it provided ample distraction from her current perilous situation.

By the time morning had dawned, Sansa hadn’t slept a wink, but despite everything that had happened, she felt calmer. Having little else to do but listen for stray bits of conversation, she’d whiled away the hours in countless fantasies, all centered around a certain Captain that had rescued her yesterday. She knew it was foolish to indulge in such fancies, that they would only give her false hope, but they helped keep the fear at bay, and bolster her resolve to survive, so she allowed herself to escape with them nonetheless. Either the daydreams would keep her sane until she was hopefully rescued, or they would provide her with some semblance of joy before she left this life. And, right now, she would take what she could get.

 

* * *

 

_**Arya:** _

It was with great reluctance that Arya trusted the pirate that had saved her sister yesterday, freeing him in hopes that he’d stick to the vow they’d made trading his freedom for assistance in finding Sansa. She and Gendry kept a close eye on Baelish as they crept out of the jail and along the docks. They each had their swords close at hand, while the pirate was still unarmed, his pistol and dagger tucked in Gendry’s coat pocket, just in case the pirate had any plans of betraying them.

The captain seemed to already have a plan in mind, footsteps confident as he led them to the underside of a bridge. The Interceptor was docked nearby, and Arya remembered that her father and Sansa had said last night that the pirate had been examining the ship earlier. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. The Interceptor was unmatchable in terms of speed, and wouldn’t require more than a few people for a crew (though of course, it would be prudent to have more). But it was already occupied, its own crew busy loading it up with supplies in preparation for a long journey.

She watched the captain’s face carefully as he considered his options, his gaze sweeping between the Interceptor and the Dauntless, a much larger ship docked off in the distance. After a few minutes, he relayed his plan to her and Gendry in hushed whispers, and she listened, her eyes growing wider by the second.

“It’ll never work,” she hissed, shaking her head.

“It might work,” Gendry said, nearly at the same time as she had spoken.

Arya shot him a glare then turned back to the pirate. “And I suppose you’ll want your pistol and dagger back,” she snarled.

Baelish smirked at her. “Indeed.”

Scowling, she nodded at Gendry to return the pirate’s weapons, then grumbled her acceptance of the plan. She didn’t like it. It seemed far too risky, and so much could go wrong, but then, so had the notion of securing the pirate’s help in the first place, and she’d already done that. If it worked, then she’d be one step closer to rescuing Sansa. And really, she couldn’t think of anything better anyway.

She wasn’t one for planning anything out, preferring just to jump into the fray and let her sword do the talking. But even she knew she wasn’t going to get Sansa back that way. Baelish was Arya’s only hope, especially since they were going to some mysterious island that few even knew how to get to. Without his help, Sansa didn’t stand a chance, and Arya knew her father would never accept help from the pirate.

No, it had to be this way. She had to trust him, at least enough to follow his lead for the moment. It was still two against one, if the pirate decided to turn on them, and she’d already nearly beaten him once on her own. With Gendry’s help, they would force the pirate to comply with their wishes if they had to.

Arya would do anything to get her sister back, even if it meant working with a pirate. And, once she had successfully rescued Sansa, she could always send the man right back to the gallows, if she were so inclined. She wasn’t fooled in the slightest in thinking he was helping her merely out of the goodness of his heart. Whatever his agenda was, she didn’t care, so long as they saved Sansa. But even if he helped them, she wouldn’t hesitate to betray him, if it was necessary. And if he did anything that hurt their efforts, she would have no qualms about killing him or tossing him at the mercy of her father.

There was no honor amongst pirates, and she was about to become one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the longer wait, I hope to start updating more frequently now that I've nearly finished writing this fic, and I don't have to worry so much about plot holes that I was worried about before. I'll give you a chapter count when it's done (possibly about 42 chapters. 40 at least) and if I have time, updates will be about two times a week :).


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr, Arya, and Gendry steal a ship and make their way to Tortuga

**Petyr:**

It hadn’t taken Petyr long to come up with a satisfactory plan to secure himself, young Arya Stark, and her oblivious friend, a ship. The plan was risky, yes, but also one he was quite proud to have come up with, on the spot, with time against them. 

Implementation was easy enough, though his companions were rather reluctant in their cooperation. Petyr only hoped they wouldn’t do anything foolish to hurt their chances of success. He was confident that Gendry wouldn’t be a problem so long as Arya followed along, but the girl was truly a wild card, capable of changing her mind at any moment based on the whims of her temper. 

Quickly, they crept over to a row of long boats upended in the sand and stole one, heading straight into the water with the boat still upside down, perched above their shoulders. This created an air pocket underwater so that they could breathe comfortably as they walked across the ocean floor, steadily making their way to the Dauntless. Luckily, they were all fairly evenly matched heightwise, the girl the shortest of the three by far, but not so much that Petyr and Gendry had to hunch to let her breathe.

“This is either madness or brilliance,” Arya grumbled from behind him.

“It’s remarkable how often those two traits coincide,” Petyr commented dryly, his focus intent on guiding them along a direct path to the Dauntless.

Gendry snorted as he brought up the rear of their strange little party, then grunted in a mix of surprise and pain. Clearly, Arya had turned and slugged him for the indulgence, disliking any show of complacency for Petyr’s machinations. 

They reached the ship without any unfortunate mishaps and discarded the boat on the ocean floor before swimming to the surface, bobbing silently in the Dauntless’ shadow. Petyr gestured for Arya and Gendry to follow him, then hauled himself up and out of the water, scaling the side of the boat. He could hear the footsteps and chatter of people, the sounds indicating that perhaps five or six were on board, guards on duty rather than a full crew. When he reached the top, he stopped, peering carefully over the rail to confirm his suspicions as he waited for Arya and Gendry to catch up.

Arya drew level with him first, and then Gendry, and Petyr waited for a few more seconds before giving them the go ahead. Together, they swung themselves on deck, boots squelching as their feet found purchase. Arya and Gendry both drew their swords, though Petyr refrained from drawing his pistol, and without a word they moved into view of the guards.

The men, six in all, stopped talking and stared at them, dumbfounded. 

“Good morning,” Petyr said cheerfully. “I hope you don’t mind. We’ve come to take your ship.” 

The men shared a glance, then burst out laughing. Petyr only looked at them, waiting for their mirth to subside. Behind him, he heard Arya and Gendry shift on their feet, clearly uncomfortable with the mockery.

One of the men, his military rank clearly designating him their leader, finally spoke, his voice laced with incredulity. “This ship cannot be crewed by-” Here, he paused, looking at them with brows raised. “Two men and a girl. You’ll never leave the port!”  

His companions dissolved into laughter again, some bent double, carried away by the ridiculous nature of the situation. 

Petyr just smirked at them, then calmly withdrew his pistol, cocking it as he held the gun to their ringleader’s temple. “I’m the Mockingbird, and if I want this ship, then I will take it. Savvy?”

The laughter instantly died, their smug smiles meeting the same fate. Without needing encouragement, Arya and Gendry moved forward, urging the guards towards the lifeboats at sword point. The men shuffled along most obligingly, hastily climbing into one of the lifeboats, which Arya and Gendry steadily lowered before Petyr used his dagger to cut the line, dropping the men unceremoniously down to the water’s edge.

Arya snatched up a pair of oars and threw them overboard. “I think you forgot these,” she called, her grin delighted as she watched the men scrambling to retrieve the oars before the waves carried them off.

“Time enough for gloating later,” Petyr reminded her, nodding to where Gendry was already working to disable the rutter chain.

Arya scowled at him, then huffed and went to help her friend. As they worked to ensure that the Dauntless had no hopes of pursuing their eventual flight, Petyr moved to gain a better view of the fleeing lifeboat, the former guards treading water straight to where the Interceptor had docked. Just as he had predicted.

Everything was going swimmingly.

 

* * *

 

**Arya:**

Arya couldn’t believe how well everything was falling into place so far. They’d had barely any trouble taking command of the Dauntless, and the ship’s former guards had gone straight to the Interceptor for help. Exactly as Baelish had said they would.

Of course, the hardest part was yet to come. 

Arya felt a funny feeling in her stomach, knowing that her father was likely aboard the Interceptor even now. That he would be among the crew coming with hopes of wresting the Dauntless back from Baelish. That Commodore Stark was now on the verge of losing not just one daughter, but two. 

But, despite the guilt she was feeling, knowing how much this was going to hurt her father, she was determined to continue. Arya knew that despite all of the resources Commodore Stark had at his disposal, he had little hope of saving Sansa. Only Baelish knew where to find Isla de la Muerta, and, even with the prospect of losing his daughter forever, Arya knew that her father would refuse the aid of a pirate. 

No, it had to be this way. Her father would forgive her, once Sansa was safely home.

And anyway, though Arya knew it would be best to outrun her father for the moment, she also knew that Commodore Stark would pursue her, Gendry, and Baelish as best he could. Hopefully, Baelish would bring them to Isla de la Muerta, unintentionally leading her father to the mysterious island as well. Then Arya could rescue Sansa with her father’s help, before they slaughtered every last pirate on the island, including Baelish.

She had no qualms about betraying  _him_ . The man was a pirate, after all.

Sooner than she would have thought, the Interceptor was closing in on them. With every second that passed, her heart raged, threatening to leap from her throat with every thump. Arya crouched in the shadows along with Gendry and Baelish, waiting for the opportune moment. 

The Interceptor pulled abreast of the Dauntless, its crew scrambling to make the crossing, long planks slapping across the gap that bridged the two ships, allowing for some to cross on foot as others swung across. With only a small margin afforded to them, Baelish had them wait until most everyone had departed the Interceptor, only seconds left until they were discovered, before they swung across, leaving the Dauntless behind. 

A quick survey of the Interceptor’s deck told them that they were in the clear, and Arya, Gendry, and Baelish sprung into action. Arya quickly cut the lines the Interceptor’s crew had used to secure the ship and swing across, while Gendry tossed the gangplanks into the water. Baelish was already at the helm, and, with less time than she would have imagined, they had pulled away from the Dauntless.

There was an outcry as the Interceptor’s crew noticed their mistake. Arya rushed to the ship’s railing to watch as more than one man attempted to swing back over, falling instead into the crashing surf when they couldn’t breach the distance. Gendry was busy adjusting the sails, but Arya stayed where she was, craning her neck as she sought out her father.

Already, they were far enough away that it was difficult to spot Commodore Stark in the crowd, but still she found him, her heart sinking as she saw the recognition flash across his face.

“Arya!” he howled, shoving aside his comrades as he dashed across the Dauntless. “What are you doing?”

Arya bit her lip, steadying her resolve. “I’m sorry,” she called back. “This is the only way. I’m going to get her back.”

“No!” her father shouted. Desperate, he turned to his subordinates. “Make haste! We must follow them at once!”

A crewman bent to whisper in Commodore Stark’s ear, and Arya watched the color drain from her father’s face. She knew he’d just learned that the Dauntless had been incapacitated. They had no hope of pursuing by means of the Dauntless. They would have to fix it or find and prepare another ship, and by then, it would be too late.

Arya would be halfway to Tortuga.

Her heart broke as she saw her father’s despair. Arya searched for some words of comfort she might offer him before they were out of yelling distance, but before she could, she heard Baelish speak.

“Thank you, Commodore Stark, for getting us ready to make way. We would have had a hard time by ourselves.” Baelish gave Commodore Stark a mock salute, complete with a smirk, both of which enraged her father.

With another howl of anguish, Commodore Stark set to ordering about his crew, determined to reclaim his daughter, and, more than likely, to strangle Baelish.

A prospect Arya was suddenly rather fond of herself. 

She bided her time until the coastline was a distant memory, seething all the while, then stormed over to where Baelish stood at the helm, lazily adjusting their trajectory. With a snarl, she tried to smack him across the face, but he nimbly dodged her attack, moving so that the wheel was between them.

“Why’d you have to taunt him like that?” she demanded, trying, and failing, to slip around the wheel fast enough to strike him.

Baelish merely shrugged, his indifference angering her further. With a frustrated scream, she withdrew her sword, shoving the tip close to his exposed neck.

He raised his eyebrows, regarding her with a maddening calm. “I’d put that away, Miss Stark. Unless of course you  _want_ me to beat you again.”

“You didn’t beat me,” Arya snapped, moving the point closer still, just shy of pricking his skin. “You ignored the rules of engagement. In a fair fight, I would have killed you.”

“That’s not much incentive for me to fight fair, now is it.” Baelish stepped swiftly back and snatched at the rigging.

Before she could make out his intentions, the boom swung out, catching her in the stomach. Arya cried out, clinging to the wooden beam as it slid out over the water. On deck, Gendry gave a shout, rushing forward to the railing. He made to draw his sword at the pirate, but halted as Baelish pointed the pistol in his direction.

“Just a moment, Mr. Waters. Your girl and I have some business to attend to,” said Baelish.

“I’m not his,” Arya gritted out, struggling to hold on, her feet dangling beneath her. Then she saw a brief flash of hurt in Gendry’s eyes, and wished she’d kept that particular retort to herself.

Gendry couldn’t possibly see her as more than a friend. Could he?

Heedless of the confusion now roiling within her mind, Baelish continued. “Now, as long as you’re just hanging there, pay attention.  The only rules that really matter are these: What a man can do and what a man can’t do. I can simply let you fall to your death, here and now, and your blacksmith boy will dive in after you, leaving you both at the mercy of the seas. But I can’t get this ship to Tortuga on my own.” He paused. “Likewise, you could do the same to me, but you can’t make it to Isla de la Muerta without me to guide you. Whether we like it or not, at present we need each other. So let’s save ourselves the energy we might have expended constantly at each other’s throats, and instead focus on the tasks we set out for, hmm?”

Arya grunted in agreement, and Baelish adjusted the rigging once more, allowing the boom to swing back over the ship. She dropped to the deck immediately, crumpling to her knees, arms sore, then struggled to her feet, ignoring Gendry’s proffered hand.

“Once we get my sister, all bets are off,” Arya warned the pirate, her hand hovering by the hilt of Needle to make her meaning clear.

Without waiting for Baelish’s response, she turned and stalked off. Already, she was dreaming up just how she would repay the pirate’s ‘kindness’ in helping her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Sansa chapter is next, and after that, Tortuga! Chapter 13 is one of my favorites, I think you're going to love it :). Chapter 12 is pretty good too ;)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa learns more about the crew on the Mockingbird’s Song, and about Captain Baelish as well.

**Sansa:**

Sansa was bored. She hadn’t been let out of her tiny cabin since they’d shut her in there last night, and the only visitor she’d received had been the Hound, who’d set a bucket before her with a meaningful glance, before leaving again, never uttering a word. Eyeing the bucket distastefully, Sansa nudged it away with her foot, refusing to suffer the indignity as long as she could before she’d had no other choice.

That bucket was the only courtesy they’d given her, sad as it was. She’d been given neither food nor water, nor blanket to curl up with, stuck with the hard, unforgiving floor, a parched tongue, and a hunger that steadily gnawed at her insides. But though she was uncomfortable, hungry, thirsty, and more than a little disgruntled and afraid at her current predicament, what bothered her the most was the lack of anything to do. 

At first Sansa had been fairly content to listen in on her captor’s conversations, filling in the gaps with fantasies surrounding a certain pirate that she hoped hadn’t met the gallows yet. But after hours and hours, she’d tired of listening to the lewd talk of the crew, and even her daydreams had lost some of their luster. With no window to let in daylight, and no timepiece to tell the time, she hadn’t the slightest clue how long she’d been on this blasted ship, nor whether it was still day or if another night had come. She began to wonder if they’d keep her locked up, without food or water, until they reached their destination, wherever it was. 

And, she wondered just what it was they intended to do with her, once they arrived. 

Try as she might, Sansa couldn’t figure out what purpose they’d had in keeping her. At first, she’d been terrified that she’d be subjected to the amorous attentions of the crew, robbed of her innocence time and time again. But they’d locked her in here and all but forgot about her, save for the Hound’s visit with the bucket, and his vigil at her door. If indeed they planned on subjecting her to such horrors, why wait (not that she was complaining, of course)? Even if they eventually had designs on selling her, or ransoming her to her family, from what she’d heard, most captors didn’t show their victims such restraint.

It didn’t make sense. She’d done her best to sift through the crew’s chatter, searching for a clue, but though they made the occasional bawdy comment about her, they never discussed anything beyond that. 

The only explanation she could think of was that it all had something to do with that pirate medallion. They’d come to Port Royal specifically to search for it, she knew that much. Whatever the coin might be, it was clearly worth something to Euron Greyjoy and his crew. 

Sansa had moved to sit next to the door halfway through the night, her back pressed against the wall that divided her from the crew bustling about out on the deck, the better to hear snippets of conversation. She was just dozing off, her head nodding towards her drawn up knees, when her ears caught the word ‘mockingbird’ and she startled awake. Hadn’t Captain Baelish had a mockingbird tattoo?

Shifting until her left ear was pressed against the door, Sansa strained to hear more. Though she’d only caught a glimpse of the bird on the inside of Captain Baelish’s forearm, she remembered seeing the word ‘mockingbird’ just below it, the lettering on a scroll caught in its talons, so she was certain that it had indeed been a mockingbird. That can’t have been a coincidence, right?

“Aye, I saw him last night,” one of the men snickered, the sound sending a creeping chill down her spine. Whoever this man was, simply his voice gave her the creeps. Sansa hoped that she wouldn’t have the misfortune to be forced to spend any time with him.

“That a fact? How is our former captain?” The second speaker sounded like Bronn, one of the men who’d brought her aboard the ship last night (the other being the Hound). His voice was tinged with amusement.

“Oh, I imagine not too well, considering he’s got a trip to the gallows in his near future,” the first man answered, sounding delighted.

Sansa’s heart leapt at the knowledge that it likely  **_was_ ** Captain Baelish they were speaking of, then promptly sank. Apparently he was still shut away in the local jail. Which not only meant that he would soon be put to death, and she’d never see him again, but that all of her fantasies of him coming to rescue her were destined to stay just that. 

Not that those fantasies had ever had the slightest chance of coming to fruition, but still.

“Really?” Bronn asked, intrigued. “Oh, I doubt that. The Mockingbird’s been through worse scrapes before.”

The other man cackled. “I’ll say. Still not sure how he managed to get off that island.”

“I’ve heard tell he roped up a bunch o’ sea turtles,” a third man said, his oily voice sounding hopeful.

Bronn snorted. “Probably lucked out with a passing ship, more like. He’s always been fortunate that way.”

“Not always,” the first man reminded Bronn gleefully. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have mutinied.”

“Aye, there’s that,” Bronn agreed. “Never did ask, how’s it feel now you’re first mate, Rams?”

“A good shot better now that Euron’s captain,” Rams replied. “Baelish always kept me and Reek on a short leash.” He snickered again, as if he’d made some kind of joke, then continued. “Euron’s got little taste for our methods himself, but he gives us free rein so long as it don’t interfere with his plans.”

“Yes, I well know your ‘methods,’ as you call them,” Bronn said, clearly disgusted. “If I recall, the rumors were so bad that Baelish was reluctant to add you to his crew, before Euron gave his shining recommendation.”

Rams laughed again. “He’d have done better not to listen to Euron, considering we mutinied a week later.”

“Apparently,” the Hound interjected dryly. “And how lovely it’s been, under your leadership.”

“Ah yes, and you were one of those who misliked the whole ordeal, yet you went along with it just the same,” Rams sneered. “Best watch your tone. I know just what to do when a Hound misbehaves.” He snapped his fingers. “Reek! Come!”

Sansa heard the retreating footsteps of two men before Bronn spoke, voice lowered. “He’s the first mate now. Best not to test the waters.”

“As if you weren’t?” the Hound said gruffly.

“We’ll be able to break free soon enough,” Bronn replied, voice lower still. “We’ve got the final piece, and the girl. Once it’s all over, nothing’ll remain to keep us on the Mockingbird’s Song.”

The Hound grunted in acknowledgement. For a moment, neither spoke, then the Hound grunted again. “Poor little bird’s got no idea what’s coming.”

“Given her a nickname, have we?” Bronn inquired, tone japing. “She’s a pretty little bird, I’ll give you that. I s’pose that’s why you haven’t left her door?”

“Euron bade me do it,” the Hound said. “To keep certain scum from ruining our chances of ending this godsforsaken mess.”

“And yet you would have done it even without Euron’s direction,” Bronn said. It wasn’t a question.

The Hound didn’t answer, and soon Bronn left him alone, leaving Sansa with far too much to sort out in her head.

This ship that she was on, was once captained by the Mockingbird, the pirate that had saved her, that had some mysterious past with her father. Petyr Baelish had sailed at the helm of the Mockingbird’s Song, until his crew, along with his first mate, Euron, had mutinied, leaving him to die. 

Her heart ached knowing this, even as she pondered what else she’d learned. Sansa didn’t even want to try and figure out the men known as Rams and Reek. Clearly her initial reaction to Rams had been more than apt. She prayed fervently that she’d have little interaction with them.

As for the Hound, he seemed alright. She knew that Bronn wasn’t far off base in suggesting that the Hound had other reasons for protecting her than the captain’s wishes. Of course, she wasn’t interested, but she was flattered, and most grateful besides. Hopefully he would keep his less savory companions away from her. 

Bronn she had less confidence in, but, seeing as he definitely regarded Rams and Reek with distaste, she placed him up near the Hound as someone she’d prefer to deal with over the rest of the crew. At least she had a better grasp of him than the others, and if he was close with the Hound, who clearly didn’t want her harmed, then perhaps she wouldn’t have to worry about him. And maybe, just maybe, she could use the Hound’s attraction to her advantage, as a means of escape.

Though his words had definitely left a chill in her mind. They didn’t outright hint at danger for her, but he’d called her ‘a poor little bird,’ and said she had ‘no idea what’s coming,’ which really, she wasn’t sure how else she could interpret that. Unless he meant only that he felt sorry that she didn’t know why they’d taken her. 

Sansa hoped that that was indeed the case, but she highly doubted it.

Moving so that her back was pressed against the wall again, she heaved a sigh, her head drooping onto her bent knees. Worst of all (which startled her, considering her current predicament), she now knew that Captain Baelish was still, at least, as of the night she’d been captured, in jail. Still in peril of his neck snapping as his feet left the ground and the noose on his neck tightened. 

What Bronn had said, about the Captain’s luck had given her some hope, but not much. As much as she prayed to be rescued, by anyone really, though she preferred Captain Baelish or her father, she prayed even more for Captain Baelish to escape the gallows. Her own fate was uncertain, it was true, and that terrified her, but the thought that he might die, that she might never see him again, terrified her far more than she ever could have imagined.

Clearly, she needed to work on sorting out her priorities….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop, Tortuga!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr, Arya and Gendry reach Tortuga.

_**Petyr:** _

It wasn’t long before they reached Tortuga. They docked at the popular pirate destination at nightfall, then disembarked from the Interceptor. Petyr led the way, the only one who had any idea why they were here and where to go, Arya and Gendry trailing in his wake, looking warily at passersby as they wove through the crowded port town. They kept an annoyingly close eye on Petyr, hands ever at the hilts of their swords, but he ignored them.

As it happened, they had little to fear of his abandoning them. The boy had no idea, but he was quite valuable, and instrumental in the plans Petyr had already begun to make concerning rescuing Sansa. And stealing the Mockingbird’s Song back from his cursed first mate, which was first priority of course. He wasn’t sure why the girl had momentarily taken precedence in his mind. His ship was the goal, had always been the goal. Rescuing Miss Stark was just a happy byproduct of his plans to overtake Euron and his crew.

And if she had notions of thanking him afterwards, then all the better.

Petyr stopped at a tavern, the owner of which he’d always been quite friendly with, and made a few whispered inquiries as to a mutual acquaintance of theirs. Gendry was gaping at a pair of whores, faces garishly made up, tits hanging out, as they fawned over a scrawny drunkard, pouring still more ale down his gullet. Arya, in turn, glared at Gendry, then punched him in the arm, knocking him from his stupor, and stalked off, muttering angrily.

Smirking, Petyr thanked the man and ducked through the crowd back to Gendry, who was rubbing his arm, and looking more than a little dazed. Earlier, Petyr had quickly deduced that Gendry was in love with Arya, as well as that Arya had little clue as to the boy’s affections. He’d decided to toy with them a bit, referring to Arya as Gendry’s lady love, just to see how it all played out. Predictably, Arya had denied it vehemently, leaving Gendry hurt, a look that even she couldn’t fail to notice.

Clearly, now that Arya knew, she was struggling with the idea that her friend might be in love with her. Rather than discuss it with him, or, at the very least, hinting at it coyly like the proper lady she was **_supposed_ ** to be, she’d vented her frustrations by striking him. Which, while effective, really only worked in the short term.

Petyr would enjoy watching the drama unfold before him. It might very well prove useful for his plans. Though he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the boy. He, of course, knew all too well what it was like to fall for someone that merely considered him a friend. Or a brother….

Rather than attempt to talk to Gendry inside, shouting above the bedlam of whores laughing and pirates fighting over which one they might bed for the night, Petyr pointed at the door and then left, without checking to make sure that Gendry was following him as he did so. Ever since Arya had left him, Gendry had been too sheepish to gawk at the painted whores in the room, so Petyr knew the boy was tracking his movements.

They found Arya just outside the tavern, eyeing a rather amorous couple, who were rolling around in the mud, with disgust. The air was heady with drunken laughter and the crack of gunshots, smoke and mist intertwining as doors were flung open, expelling patrons and billows of smoke from fires within. Beer, and other, less desirable substances, splattered to the ground in regular intervals, muddying the dirt into a thick sludge which claimed more than one victim, drunks, pirates, and whores alike planting face first in the muck in a bizarre interpretation of a garden.

Petyr set off towards the hovel he’d been told currently housed Lothor Brune, artfully dodging people unashamedly fighting and fucking along the way. He never came here, if he could help it. Tortuga was about as far from his idea of fun as you could get. Drink only served to rob one of good sense, and whores were much the same, but to a greater degree. Women in general, had that effect, now that he thought about it. For he’d nearly died once, because of a woman. And Gendry here had only come along on this quest in hopes of impressing Arya.

No, life was better if he never imbibed in such pleasures. He kept his head that way (sometimes literally). And staying clear of all women, even whores, meant he’d never risk feeling the pain of heartbreak again. It was better that way. Safer.

And anyway, no one he’d found yet since Cat had really been worth that risk. Certainly not her daughter.

At least that’s what he told himself. Still, Sansa had been lingering in his thoughts all too often as of late. Time better spent fine tuning his plans for revenge on Euron.

No, Petyr had little use for women or drink. Even women as pretty as Sansa.

Not that he discouraged anyone else from doing so. Rather he encouraged it. He liked the advantage it gave him. Men spilled secrets over drink and women with astonishing ease. In another life, one where he’d been given an opportunity over piracy, he might have opened a brothel, putting secrets to good use to undermine even the King.

Alas, it wasn’t to be. Instead it was ‘Yo ho ho, a pirate’s life for me,’ and all that rubbish. Which, certain aspects had their appeal. Sun and sand and surf. Every man for himself. Treasure. The thrill of lawlessness. His ship….

Petyr had nearly reached Lothor’s latest squatting ground when, out of nowhere, a buxom redhead darted out in front of him. Before he could do or say anything, she struck him across the face, prompting gasps from both Arya and Gendry, before Arya dissolved into undignified howls of laughter. Petyr staggered back, holding his hand to his stinging cheek, as he trained his gaze on the woman’s face, instantly recognizing her.

Curvy and flame-haired, wild curls tumbling down her shoulders and back, with lips that usually twisted seductively, bright eyes, and an aura of confidence, it could be no one else.

Fuck.

It was Ros.

She raised her hand to strike him again, but he ducked away, still rubbing at his smarting cheek. Fuck, she’d hit him hard. “Looking good, Ros,” he said, hoping a compliment might do at least something to dispel her rage.

It didn’t.

Ros swung again, but this time she was blocked, surprisingly, by Arya. Face reddening, Ros struggled against Arya’s grip for a bit before lowering her arm, still glaring at Petyr.

Choking back her laughter, Arya grinned at Ros. “Not that I don’t condone beating him to a pulp, but I kind of need him at the moment. So if you could wait until after I’m done with him, I’d very much appreciate it.”

Ros frowned at her. “And what business have you got with Petyr?”

Arya just shrugged. “That’s between me and him.”

“Well, seeing as I’m sure he wronged **_me_ ** first,” Ros said, glaring over Arya’s shoulder at Petyr, “I would appreciate it if you’d let me go.”

“What’d he do?” Gendry asked curiously.

“He stole my ship!” Ros snarled, wrestling her arm out of Arya’s grasp and pointing at Petyr vehemently.

“Ah.” Arya exchanged a look with Gendry. “Well, then. We’ve got a ship. Come join our crew, help us rescue my sister, and it’s all yours.”

Ros just stared at her for a moment, then nodded, mouth curving in a smile. “You’ve got a deal, small pint.”

Petyr rolled his eyes. Well this little excursion suddenly had taken a turn for the worse…. “Fine,” he said. “But let’s get moving. I want to catch Lothor before he leaves.”

“No one asked you,” Arya snarled, but Ros’ eyes lit up.

“You’re here to see Lothor?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so. Come on in, he’s just inside.” With a wave beckoning them to follow her, Ros darted across the narrow alley and ducked through the doorway of a ramshackle lean-to.

Petyr sighed, and made to follow her. This was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a line I wrote in this chapter that I just love. See if you can spot it ;)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is forced to dine with Euron, where she learns a bit more about her fate.

_**Sansa:** _

When the pirates holding her captive finally deigned to check on her again, Sansa had only just managed to fall asleep, her body and mind finally settling down enough to get some much needed rest. Of course, the Hound showed no sympathy for her plight, shaking her awake anyway, but she supposed she could forgive him for it. How was he to know she’d barely slept a wink since she’d been detained on this cursed ship?

Brain still foggy with sleep, Sansa peered up at the Hound, blinking. Behind him, she could see daylight filtering through the doorway. Was it still only the day after the raid on Port Royal? Or had she slept far more than she’d realized?

“Come on, little bird,” the Hound said gruffly. “The captain has requested that you dine with him tonight.”

At the mere suggestion of food, her stomach rumbled, but Sansa shoved its complaints to the back of her mind. No way was she going to dine with Euron, mutinous former first mate of Captain Baelish’s, no matter how hungry she was. That she felt such loyalty to a man she barely knew should have given her pause, but she pushed that to the side as well. His past with Captain Baelish aside, Euron had also treated her most dreadfully. She wouldn’t agree to come willingly, though she wasn’t naive enough to believe that her refusal would stop them from forcing her to eat with him.

Armouring herself with the politeness of the highborn lady she was, Sansa met the Hound’s gaze. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry,” she declined.

He gave a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “You’re clearly a capable liar, but, seeing as your stomach already spoke for you, you can hardly blame me for not believing you.”

Sansa inwardly cursed her body for its betrayal, but refused to back down, smiling demurely around her next attempt. “I’m afraid I’m in no condition to dine with the captain tonight. I’ve hardly slept, nor have I anything at my disposal to make myself presentable.”

The Hound shook his head again, still amused. “Little bird, this is not a negotiation.”

Her smile faltered. As she’d suspected. Still, you couldn’t blame her for trying. “I see.” 

With as much dignity as she could, legs cramped from sleeping curled up on the floor, Sansa rose to her feet. He didn’t make any attempt to help her, though she would have refused him if he had. While she could see a flicker of sympathy in his eyes, he was still enforcing Euron’s wishes. And for that, she could not forgive him.

As he led her out of her little cabin, she felt compelled to tell him that she wanted it known that she wasn’t coming of her own accord.

He laughed again. “I assure you, no one thinks you are. We may be but humble pirates, but even we know the difference between a willing woman, and unwilling one.”

She flushed at the not so subtle insinuation, but quickly forget her consternation as she felt the sun’s rays on her face for the first time in what felt like an eternity. It was clearly evening, the sun low in the sky, its rays dying in a fight against the growing darkness, but she cherished the warmth all the same. The absence of light had obviously affected her, even in the short span of her captivity.

The Hound led her to the captain’s quarters and knocked, pushing her inside unceremoniously and shutting the door behind her once Euron bid them entrance. Sansa stumbled forward into the room and made an effort to compose herself before letting her gaze travel about the room. Before her sat a large table, overflowing with far too much food for two people, Euron already seated at one end, lounging with his boots propped on the table and his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. 

“Come sit, Miss Waters,” he called. “The food is getting cold.”

Warily, Sansa walked over to the table, taking the only other chair available. She scooted her chair forward, then placed her hands in her lap, refusing to partake of the feast, despite the delicious scents wafting up to her nostrils. Roast chicken, bread and butter, boiled potatoes and carrots… Her mouth watered, but still she exercised restraint.

“Come now, no dawdling,” Euron urged her. “You must be hungry.”

Sansa’s eyes darted along the table, drinking in the various offerings against her will. She could see bundles of grapes,  and apples, pears, and other fresh, vibrant fruit. The bread looked soft and crusty, the butter already melting from the day’s heat beside it. And the chicken was perfectly roasted, skin crisp and glistening with drippings. Losing her resolve, Sansa snatched up a chicken leg and sank her teeth into the meat, holding back a moan as the flavor burst on her tongue.

Ignoring the hateful man she was dining with, she swallowed the morsel and picked up the goblet by her plate, which was already filled with wine. Sansa gulped down half of its contents, her parched throat thanking her profusely for every drop, then set the goblet back down, wiping the back of her hand against her mouth. It was hardly ladylike to do so, but then she was dining with a pirate, and, if ever the manners of high society counted for nothing, it was now.

The bread was as heavenly as she’d imagined it, the butter a perfect complement, and Sansa supposed that her meal was courtesy of the fine citizens of Port Royal. For how else could a pirate dine so richly at sea? As she ate, she felt Euron’s gaze on her, and, when she realized that he wasn’t eating, she suddenly stopped, dropping the heel of bread she’d been attacking to her plate. Her knife clattered against her plate in response, and she allowed her eyes to flick to it for a second before she met Euron’s gaze.

He’d given her a knife. Either he’d had a lapse in judgement, or he didn’t think her capable of using one. Well, his mistake then….

Seeking to distract him, and desiring an answer, lest she find out too late that he’d poisoned the food (though she supposed it was already too late, considering all she’d eaten), she said, “We can hardly be said to be dining together, if only one of us is eating.”

Euron raised his eyebrows, then looked up at the monkey, who was gnawing on a crust of bread. “Petyr’s eating.”

Sansa stiffened at the use of the name, her hand halting in its quest for the knife. “That’s the monkey’s name?”

Euron nodded. “Named after a former acquaintance of mine,” he drawled.

Well, there was her answer for that. Not only had Euron incited a mutiny against Captain Baelish, but he’d also named his pet monkey after him in another attempt to prompt ridicule. No doubt Euron and the crew all got a good laugh out of it. Her hand, still centimeters from the knife, curled into a fist. 

“But will you not partake?” she tried again. “The wine, at the very least, is worth a taste.”

He laughed, tilting back his head as he did so, the sound laced with a hint of hysteria. “Aye, that it might be. But it would be wasted on me.”

Sansa’s blood ran cold. Mind frantic, she surreptitiously tucked the knife she’d finally retrieved, whilst Euron had been laughing, into the folds of her skirt. “Then I’m to die?”

Euron tilted his head to the side, eyeing her as if she were a roadside attraction rather than a girl. “Are you?” He grinned, revealing gold and silver teeth that glimmered in the candlelight. “I suppose we all die, at some point, do we not?”

Sansa slammed her free hand on the table, rattling the silverware. “You know what I mean!” she cried, losing her cool. “Is it poisoned?”

Euron’s boots left the table, thundering to the floor as he bent double, positively howling with amusement. Sansa balled her fists, gripping the knife in one, through the folds of her skirt. His laughter seemed to go on forever, tears streaming from his eyes, his expression half crazed. When he finally quieted, he dashed his sleeve across his face, still grinning maniacally. 

“Oh Miss Waters, there’s no use to be killing you yet.”

Sansa gripped the knife tighter, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “Oh? And why is that?”

Euron nodded at the monkey, who promptly skittered down to the floor and out of sight. When he returned, he was clutching the pirate medallion, and he settled back on Euron’s shoulder, dropping the coin into Euron’s waiting hand. “Do you know what this is, Miss Waters?”

Sansa was grateful they were already speaking, and the only two people in the room, or she might have looked over her shoulder to see who he was talking about. She kept forgetting that she’d used Waters rather than her own surname name, in hopes that she wouldn’t be deemed a worthy hostage. Of course, that hadn’t exactly panned out. 

She shook her head and shrugged. “A pirate medallion.”

“Aye, that it is,” Euron agreed, dangling the medallion on its chain so that it glittered in the candlelight. “But this particular medallion is in fact Aztec gold, one of eight hundred and eighty-two pieces in a stone chest. It was used to placate Cortes himself, by men with hopes of sparing themselves of his wrath, but he took the gold and slaughtered them anyway.” He paused. “And who could have faulted him for that. I certainly would have done the same, as would many of my brethren. But it seems the gods saw otherwise. 

“The gold was cursed. It was said that ‘any mortal that removes but a single piece from that stone chest shall be punished for eternity,’ and so Cortes received as much. He learned to regret the choice he had made, but by then it was far too late. He was already damned.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him, thinking that perhaps Euron was as mad as he seemed, if he thought she’d believe such foolish fancies. “I hardly believe in ghost stories,” she scoffed.

Euron stood from his chair, grin widening as he walked towards her. Not wanting him near her, Sansa leapt to her feet, still gripping the knife concealed in her skirt, and backed away as he prowled closer.

“Neither did we, until we found the chest, on Isla de Muerta. We took the gold, and spent it, and here we stand, the crew of the damned. We became insatiable, consumed by greed, and  **_nothing_ ** , not even the finest wine, nor the touch of a beautiful woman, had any hopes of satisfying us.” Euron kept pursuing her until she found herself backed into a corner, with no way of escape. Her heart was frantic against her ribcage, knuckles whitening as she clutched the knife.

Still, she waited. Despite her terror, the girl who loved stories and songs longed to hear what came next. 

And when he’d finished the tale, then she’d strike.

“There is but one way to break the curse,” Euron continued, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that relayed to her the madness within. “All of the gold pieces must be returned to the stone chest, and the blood repaid in kind. Thanks to you, we have the final piece. So you see, that’s why it makes little sense to kill you.” He paused, lips stretching wider in a crazed grin, then added, “Yet.” 

Summoning up her courage, knowing she’d never have a better chance, Sansa whipped the knife free from her skirt and stabbed Euron, the blade sinking into his chest far easier than she might have imagined. Horrified by what she’d just done, even to save her own life, she let go of it and raised her gaze to meet his.

To her shock, Euron only regarded her with cool amusement, before he glanced down at the knife still quivering in his chest and pulled it free. “I’m curious,” he said, eyeing the knife like the blood upon it was merely that of an animal’s rather than his own heart’s, like it hadn’t just been sunk handle deep into his chest. “After killing me, what is it you were planning on doing next?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <333


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr has a chat with Lothor. Sansa learns more about the crew of the Mockingbird’s Song and their curse.

_**Petyr:** _

The lean-to consisted of only one room, barely enough space for one person, let alone two, but Ros seemed right at home as she led Petyr, Arya, and Gendry inside. A worn mattress was tucked haphazardly into a corner, straw poking through it in several spots in a manner that looked highly uncomfortable. Across from it was a rickety table and two chairs, set before a hearth, which was, at present, unlit, its soot trailing across the mottled wooden floor.

Seated at the table was one of Petyr’s oldest and most trustworthy contacts, a man who’d previously served aboard ships commandeered by the Royal Navy, gathering valuable intel for his fellow pirates. Lothor Brune was often a man of few words, though he could be heavily steeped in superstition at times, a fact which Petyr couldn’t blame him for, after they’d learned about some of the lesser known aspects of the world. Magic and curses were abound alike in a world that refused to believe in either, if only one knew where to look.

Unfortunately, Petyr knew where to look. Though he himself had previously been foremost amongst the skeptics.

Petyr swept his gaze around the tiny room, not bothering to hide his distaste, before he settled his attention on Lothor, who was busy picking dirt from under his fingernails with his dagger, only acknowledging their presence with a gruff nod. Ros went to stand behind Lothor, crossing her arms and setting her mouth defiantly.

Petyr ignored her obvious rancor. “You two shacking up now?” he asked, directing his question at Lothor.

Despite his intent, Ros answered instead, bristling at the question. “What’s it to you” You haven't wanted me in years. A girl has needs, you know.”

Behind Petyr, Arya snorted, then grunted in indignation as Gendry shushed her. Lothor didn’t deign to comment.

It was true, that at one point Petyr had occasionally sought solace in Ros’ company (before he’d sworn off women completely, deciding he was better off without). But that time had long since passed. He'd never truly wanted her, and only the fact that she'd wanted him had kept him coming back. She was better off with someone who actually wanted her. Lothor was welcome to her, if indeed that was the case.

And she could do far worse. Lothor was as loyal to those who’d earned it as they come, never one to betray a confidence. And, though older than Ros, he was capable and strong, as sharp a pirate as any, more so even. Not to mention, she’d always had a penchant for grey, and Lothor had a full head of it, coiled in tight curls. He wasn’t a looker by any means, but he wasn’t ugly either, his build stocky, nose slightly squashed, jaw squared.

Petyr would never say it, but he was happy for them.

He shrugged. “Merely curious, that’s all.”

Ros glared at him. “Well, route that curiosity elsewhere. My business is none of yours.”

He sighed. “Ros, whatever our differences, I didn’t come here to talk to you.”

Ros made to reply, voice faltering as Lothor shoved his chair back, getting to his feet. He tucked his dagger back into its sheath and jerked his head towards the door. “Come on then, we’ll talk over a pint,” he grunted.

Arya and Gendry shuffled out of the way as Lothor made for the door, clearly unsure how to act around the grizzled pirate. Petyr followed Lothor outside, then turned and blocked the doorway, halting Arya, Gendry, and Ros, who’d made to follow them. “You three stay here,” he ordered. “Lothor and I have much to discuss, and it will be easier without you lot.”

“Absolutely not,” Arya snarled. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. What’s to stop you from ditching me and Gendry and making off with the boat?”

Petyr smirked at her. “If you’re that worried, return to the Interceptor. We’ll meet you there when we’re done.” He turned to Ros. “You did say, after all, that you were interested in joining our crew.”

Ros nodded, though she looked wary. Arya made to protest, Gendry ready to leap to her support at a moment’s notice, but Ros interrupted her. “Look, I know Petyr. He’ll get his way eventually. And if we’re on the boat, he can hardly leave you stranded, can he? He’ll be back when he’s finished. Whatever he’s got cooking, involves that ship, so he’s not just gonna leave it behind.”

Placated, Arya grumbled her assent, and Petyr moved away from the doorway, turning to follow Lothor to another tavern. The other three wandered in the opposite direction, heading for the Interceptor.

Once they were settled, at a table tucked away from the mayhem, Petyr filled Lothor in on everything that had happened, from arriving at Port Royal, to his unfortunate encounter with Ros mere minutes ago. Lothor was quiet as he listened, taking steady, measured sips from his pint of ale. When Petyr had finished, Lothor lowered his empty mug and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, sighing.

“I assume you’ve set your sights on reclaiming the Mockingbird’s Song?” he asked, sounding as if he already knew the answer.

“Aye.”

Lothor sighed again. “It’s a fool’s errand, Petyr. With that blasted curse you haven’t a chance. Euron and his crew cannot be killed, and he’ll never relinquish the Song while he still lives.”

“And that is where you come in, old friend,” Petyr replied. “I need you to help me find a mutual acquaintance of ours.”

Lothor shook his head. “I know to whom you’re referring, and you’d best forget it now. He’ll never come out of hiding. The risk is too great. No, best let it be, Petyr. You’ll have to find another way.”

“There is no other way,” Petyr told him.

“Then let it be. Try and rescue the girl if you can, but I myself will have no part in it. Going up against Euron and his crew means certain death, and I don’t know about you, but I have no wish to join Davy Jones’ Locker.” Lothor eyed the dregs at the bottom of his pint then pushed it away.

“He’ll come out of hiding,” Petyr assured him.

Lothor furrowed his brow. “And what makes you so certain?”

“The boy I was with. He had quite a familiar look, did he not?”

Lothor frowned. “Didn’t get a good look at him. Why?”

Petyr glanced around the room, checking to make sure they remained unnoticed, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Then perhaps the name ‘Gendry Waters’ might jog your memory.”

Lothor’s eyes gleamed in recognition. Slowly, he nodded, expression thoughtful. “Aye, I think you might be right after all. Ole Bootstrap’s been near inconsolable ever since they were parted. And if the boy is dead set on chasing after Euron, Bootstrap’ll follow.”

Petyr smirked. “Indeed. And after that, everything will fall into place.” He paused. “What say you? Care to join the Interceptor as my first mate?”

Lother nodded. “Aye.” He rose from the table. “Tell Ros not to wait up. I’ll round up a prospective crew, and our guest of honor, for inspection at dawn.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to find the Interceptor,” Petyr assured him, “seeing as we lifted it from the Royal Navy.”

Lothor raised his eyebrows. “And, with a Commodore’s daughter and a ship like that, you don’t think you’ll have pursuit?”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa:_ **

The knife, once buried hilt deep in Euron’s chest, glistened sickly red in the candlelight. Sansa gaped at it, and at the wound in Euron’s chest, before raising her gaze to meet his. His eyes were solid black but for the whites, and empty, like those of the dead, even as they bored into her. Terrified, she shoved against his chest with both hands, somehow succeeding in pushing him away, and fled.

Mind reeling, heart screaming in her ears, she darted to the door and flung it open, bursting outside into the cool night air.

But she’d hardly gone more than a few steps when she stopped, petrified at the scene before her.

It was a nightmare come to life. Somehow, some way, the crew had transformed. Where before had been men, now were corpses in varying states of decay. Most were mere skeletons, still cloaked in the clothes they’d died in, all of which were reduced to tatters. Others were less decomposed, bits of desiccated flesh still clinging to their bones, evidence of the wounds they’d perished of easily distinguished by holes in their clothes.

She spotted the Hound, his mangled, burnt face even more horrifying to behold, half rotted away, his hair reduced to a few strands blowing in the breeze. Bronn was nearby, and he was missing an eye, a fact made all the more glaring by the gaping hole in his skull. The bottom half of his shirt was ripped away to reveal a few ribs and his spinal column. Another, whose name she was uncertain of, was missing his jaw, a sizeable crater in his skull detailing just how he’d met his end. None of them paid her any mind as she stared wildly at them all, all calmly setting about their work as if nothing whatsoever was amiss.

Sansa didn’t know when she started to scream, the sound ripping through her, eerily shrill, but when she’d realized it, she came to her senses and stopped, slowly backing away from the living horrors prowling about the deck. ‘ **_Run_ ** ,’ she told herself. ‘Get a lifeboat somehow, and **_run_ **.’

Gathering up her courage, she began to turn, ready to sprint for where she hoped the lifeboats might be, only to collide with Euron. His arms were around her in an instant, her back pressed against his chest, but unlike with Captain Baelish she struggled against his grip, screaming, hating every second his hands were on her. He clapped a bony hand to her mouth, which, in this case, could not have been more of an understatement, silencing her cries. And though she recoiled at the very thought of his disgusting hand touching her face, she could not bring herself to bite down in hopes that he would release her, fighting nausea at the very thought of it.

Euron cackled in her ear, clearly delighted by her terror. “Look at them!” he cried, his voice almost a sing-song. The hand over her mouth turned her chin, forcing her to look at the crew.

She could have just closed her eyes, but she found she couldn’t, unable to look away from the ghastly remnants of the pirates before her.

Euron pulled her tighter against his chest. “It’s the moonlight what does it,” he crooned. “It shows us for what we truly are. Neither dead nor alive, forever to walk the earth as shadows of men. We cannot die, nor can we truly live, and neither pleasure nor pain can reach us, until the curse is broken.”

Sansa gulped, taking in lungfuls of cool, night air, trying her best not to tremble. And then Euron suddenly, harshly, shoved her away, spinning her as he did so, and she stumbled, catching herself just before she fell. As she straightened, she caught sight of Euron’s newly revealed state, the dead eyes staring out at her matching the skull that held them. Beard still lingered against bone, scrubby and teeming with maggots, and her stomach roiled as his jaw gaped in a leer, revealing blackened teeth.

“Best start believing in ghost stories, Miss Waters,” Euron told her, his grin sickening. “You’re in one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day <333
> 
> Whether you celebrate or not, I hope you have a wonderful day, and that you enjoy my little gift to you <333


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tries to block out what she’s seen. Petyr surveys his new crew for the Interceptor, gathered by Lothor.

_**Sansa:** _

Sansa spent the night plagued by what she’d seen, whether replayed in her mind in memory or in dreams. For once, she was grateful when she was locked back in her lonely little cabin, the better to keep new memories of their reanimated corpses from forming afresh. Rather than the comfort it had been previously, the Hound’s vigil outside of her door served to torment her, keeping the wound of her terror gaping open, as each time she heard him move she saw him in her mind’s eye as he’d been under the moonlight. 

Trembling, she curled into a ball on the floor and wept, tears leaking from beneath shuttered eyelids for the first time since she’d been captured. The fears of the world she knew she’d handled in stride. But this, this was something she could not begin to comprehend. How could she possibly fight against something she likely had no hope of understanding?

Her chances of survival seemed hopeless. Even if her father found her in time, he and anyone he’d brought along with him would likely perish along with her. For if Euron’s crew couldn’t die, then what hope did mortals have against them? Her father would be fighting against an unstoppable force, and, brave and strong though he might be, he couldn’t possibly win against such odds.

Nor, she suspected, could Captain Baelish. Though the notion that he’d come for her was only the childish fantasy of a girl who should have known better.

And anyway, he’d once captained the Mockingbird’s Song. Perhaps he too was affected by the curse. 

Sansa shuddered at the thought.

She hoped not.

Eventually, she cried herself to sleep, and, while her dreams were fraught with undead pirates, at least there she knew she’d wake soon, that she wasn’t in any real danger, whereas in life she had no such escape.

 

* * *

 

_**Petyr:** _

Petyr woke well before dawn, sneaking off the Interceptor in search of one of the nicer inns on Tortuga. He hadn’t had the opportunity or means to bathe since before Port Royal, and nothing irked him more than the feel of greasy hair and sweat grimed skin. In truth, this meant he’d probably be better off in any profession other than as a pirate, with the prospect of long months at sea, but he always did his best to make do.

At any rate, it was uncertain when he could next find an opportunity to get cleaned up, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to take it.

He lingered quite a deal longer than he’d meant to, washing up and trimming his hair and facial hair, stepping afterwards into clothes he’d asked to have freshly laundered while he was occupied as such. Afterwards, he set about obtaining a new sword, since as of yet he’d been without, and it wasn’t exactly the best idea to go galavanting about without one. Finally, new sword tucked into the scabbard at his hip, and his skin, hair and clothes wonderfully clean, he wandered about the docks for a time, speaking quietly with the pirates already awake, tending to their ships. 

Coins exchanged hands, and by the time he was finished, Petyr was certain that when Ned Stark finally arrived in Tortuga, no matter how incompetent the Commodore may be, the Dauntless would soon be well in pursuit of the Interceptor and on course for Isla de la Muerta (though of course Petyr made sure neither the men he talked to nor Ned Stark would know that the island was the Interceptor’s destination. It wouldn’t do for anyone on Tortuga to know the location of Isla de la Muerta, and Petyr didn’t want the Commodore to know anything about the island, else the man, noble to a fault, would probably take the treasure Euron had hoarded there and return it to the rightful owners). For all to go according to plan, it was essential that Petyr’s old rival reached the island that few ever found.

Even with everything Petyr had taken care of that morning, he still made it back to the Interceptor just before dawn, Arya glaring at him blearily as she stumbled up from the crew’s quarters, his whistling having woken her.

“Knock it off,” she snapped, digging her fists into her eyes.

“Good morning to you too,” he told her, injecting extra cheer into his voice, just to tick her off, before he continued whistling, his arms propped up along the rail as he watched the sun rising.

“What’s going on...?” Gendry mumbled, tripping over his own feet as he came up beside Arya.

Petyr kept his face angled so that he could watch both the sun rising above the docks and his companions, curious as to how they were handling their swiftly changing relationship. There was a pause in which no one said anything, Arya simply staring at her sleep rumpled besotted friend. She seemed unable to form a response for a few seconds, until she latched onto something far easier to deal with.

“Gods, will you stop?” Arya practically screeched. “Some of us were trying to sleep.”

Behind her, Ros appeared, looking as well put together as always, her long hair blowing freely in the breeze but for a strip of cloth bound around her temples. “Give it up, small pint,” Ros advised Arya. “It’s dawn. Lothor’ll be here soon, and we’ll be picking a crew.”

Arya glowered at Petyr, then stomped back out of sight, disappearing into the belly of the ship. Gendry doggedly followed her, and Petyr shook his head, not bothering to hide his amusement. Since they were gone, he stopped whistling, knowing the sound had never bothered Ros. Far from it, in fact.

Ros joined him, leaning against the side of the boat next to where he was standing, her back to the docks. “The boy sure is smitten,” she commented.

“Aye,” he agreed. 

“The girl looks like she hardly knows what to do with it.”

Petyr shrugged. “She didn’t even know until yesterday.”

Ros laughed. “And I suppose that was your doing?”

“It might have been,” he replied, straightening as he spied Lothor, a scraggly assortment of pirates following in his wake.

“Of course, it wasn’t purely out of the goodness of your heart that you brought about that revelation,” Ros said, following him as he slipped down onto the docks, meeting the gathered crowd.

Petyr didn’t bother to reply, waiting as Lothor called for everyone to assemble in a line. Eyeing the group thoughtfully, Petyr swept down their ranks, seizing up any obvious merits or demerits. He recognized most of them, but for a girl with flowing black hair, and a middle aged man with a poofy mass of curly black hair. Olyvar, blonde and gangly, with a good head on his shoulders and a history of loyalty, was close with Ros, and hardly a surprise contender. Oberyn Martell and Ellaria Sand were famous among pirates, with strict loyalty only to one another. They hopped from ship to ship, never staying long, fucking their way through the crew, their tastes exotic, their love for one another boundless. Petyr had had the pleasure of sailing with them more than once, and always enjoyed their company (though he’d never taken them up on anything more than conversation). Both were sharp of mind and easy going, and more than capable of holding their own in any situation.

Those three he accepted readily, though he paused in deliberation in front of the fourth, ignoring Arya and Gendry’s untimely arrival, which was announced by sound rather than sight, Arya’s grumbling the key indication. Though he hadn’t seen the fourth man since his own youth in Port Royal, Petyr recognized him instantly. Far apart from the fact that the man’s appearance was visually unique, he was from a well known family, and his disappearance had been quite the talk of the town, once upon a time. 

Tyrion Lannister was about four feet tall, born afflicted with the both the rare condition of dwarfism, and that of heterochromia, one of his eyes green and the other black. He’d been born into one of the wealthiest families in Port Royal, his own sister in fact marrying the future governor, but his unfortunate physical detractions, coupled with the fact that his mother died birthing him, made him the black sheep of the family. Petyr remembered when he’d first heard that Tyrion had disappeared, an event that occurred only a short time before Petyr left the town himself. Though Petyr had never thought Tyrion had turned to piracy - rather, he’d always assumed that Tyrion’s father, Tywin Lannister, had simply had his own son quietly killed, unable to deal with the (perceived) indignity of having such a child any longer.

While Petyr knew very little of the man Tyrion had become, he remembered the boy from Port Royal as being quite studious and deeply intelligent. And, since he trusted Lothor’s judgement, and had little else to choose from, he decided to look past Tyrion’s obvious physical detriments, which he assumed must make it hard to do much of anything aboard a ship. If Tyrion had lasted this long in piracy, he must be able to make himself useful enough.

The black haired siren next to Tyrion was clearly Tyrion’s lover, her hand on his shoulder, chin tilted upward proudly as Petyr examined her, searching for anything that might give him a better grasp of her character. She had a dagger belted at her waist, and another tucked into her boot, and her eyes reflected a fiery intelligence that he reckoned bordered on Ros’ intellect. Seeing as how Lothor still occasionally expressed discomfort on having women aboard a ship, Petyr assumed that, like Ros, this woman would be worth the bad luck Lothor assumed they’d bring (in other words, more than competent). If she could hold her own until Petyr managed to retrieve the Song, then that was all that mattered.

In time, he could find a new crew, one more worthy of the Song. But for now, he’d take what he could get.

The man next to the woman Lothor referred to as Shae, turned out to be one Syrio Forel, another legend amongst pirates that Petyr had never had the fortune to meet before now. An accomplished duelist with a flair for dramatics, Syrio had captained more than a few ships in his day, but as of late he’d found himself more transient, flitting from ship to ship wherever he felt he was needed. Clearly, Syrio felt Petyr had need of him, and Petyr couldn’t disagree. He was grateful to have Syrio on board, and hoped that the old seabird would find him an adequate captain.

At the end of the line, Petyr found the man he’d specifically requested. Beard thick and smattered with grey, an eyepatch slung over his right eye (which Petyr suspected remained intact, the patch merely for aesthetic purposes, another way to alter his appearance), Bootstrap looked altered enough that Petyr might not have recognized him without careful scrutiny, but it was indeed him.

Lothor cleared his throat. “And this here’s Davos. Davos Seaworth.”

Petyr cocked an eyebrow. “Davos, you say?”

Interesting. So Bootstrap had retaken his original identity, in an effort to stave off Euron’s crew.

Davos nodded. “Aye,” he replied, the Irish lilt in his tone unmistakable.

Petyr held back a smirk. Oh yes, this was Davos all right. Though he’d hidden the accent when he’d masqueraded about as Bill ‘Bootstrap’ Waters. 

Clapping his hands, Petyr spun around, heading back aboard the Interceptor. Once on deck, he rested his elbows against the railing, surveying his motley crew from above. They turned, craning their necks to look up at him. 

“Right,” he called. “You’ll do, I imagine. I am Captain Petyr Baelish, better known as the ‘Mockingbird.’ Lothor will serve as my first mate. We’ll be crewing the Interceptor to find the legendary Isla de la Muerta, rescue a maiden fair, and recover my ship from Euron and his damned crew. You’ve all been informed of the risks. Serve me well, and the abandoned riches of Isla de la Muerta shall be yours.”

His future crew nodded grimly, then brightened at the mention of treasure. Petyr had instructed Lothor to be as frank as needed during recruitment, not wanting anyone faint of heart to join his crew only to abandon him when they made their stand against Euron. He needed men (and women) strong enough to handle such a task, or they’d never make it to Isla de la Muerta, let alone break the curse and slaughter Euron and his crew.

Only Arya and Gendry had been ignorant of Petyr’s alternate agenda (of course, they knew he wasn’t simply in it to rescue Sansa, but they hadn’t yet learned anything beyond that). Arya looked furious at the revelation, Gendry less so. But she could do little about it, when the crew was bound to serve Petyr, not her, and he’d kept to his word that he’d do what he could to rescue Sansa. 

They were still going to Isla de la Muerta after all. Where Euron was certainly taking Sansa, if indeed she was still alive, possibly with hopes that her blood would break the curse, since she’d had the medallion in her possession. Only, Petyr knew that it wouldn’t. And when Euron learned as such, his wrath would likely be intractable. 

Time was of the essence. Once Euron learned that Sansa was of no further use to him, there was no telling what might happen. Petyr didn’t like the idea of the horrors Euron and his crew might do to her. 

In addition, once the Mockingbird’s Song left Isla de la Muerta, it would be far harder to implement his plans and retake it. For everything to go smoothly, it was best to catch Euron and his crew unawares on the island. Not to mention, Petyr was loathe to have to attack his own ship in a fight to reclaim her. If he could, he’d leave the Song out of the battle entirely.

No, it was best to make haste, for all parties involved. Everything hinged on Petyr getting to the island as quickly as possible.

Which is why, of course, they set sail immediately. A flame haired beauty and the Song were waiting for him, and he was anxious for their reunion.

Only, he wasn’t quite sure which he looked forward to most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <333333


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa continues to struggle with her current predicament. Petyr has a talk with Davos.

**Sansa:**

When Sansa awoke the next morning (at least, she imagined it was morning. Really, she had no way of telling the time, in a windowless room), her head was throbbing with a headache that split her temple, striking right between her eyes. She’d eventually been able to stifle her sobs, which had wracked her body with increasing frequency throughout the night, until she was choking and shaking, and completely sapped of both energy and the moisture needed for tears. Still trembling, she’d lain on the floor, cheek pressed to the grime spotted wood, and prayed for solace, for the hope that had once kept her going.

It wouldn’t come.

They’d left her alone again, save for once, when the Hound, who’d clearly been listening to her crying all night, took pity on her and tossed a wineskin into the room, before shutting the door again without comment. Sansa had stared at it for a moment, feeling a renewed urge to weep again, but her eyes refused to cooperate, her body too devoid of liquid to comply. She scraped her tongue along her chapped lips, longing to sate her thirst, but terrified that the Hound had merely thought to play a cruel trick on her by tossing in an empty wineskin. 

Finally, unable to hold back any longer, desperate for some semblance of relief, Sansa jerked upright, scrabbling across the floor on hands and knees until she reached the wineskin. She snatched it up, and the sweetest sounds met her ears, the telltale sloshing of liquid within. Had she been able, she might have wept with joy as she opened the wineskin and tilted it back, the wine bursting against her tongue and flowing down her throat in a manner that nearly overwhelmed her. 

As she drank, slowly, so as to savor it, and not prompt her stomach to rebel, she felt her mind clearing, the headache receding. How blissful it felt, to finally have again something she’d always previously taken for granted.

Sansa decided that, whatever his defaults, she was thankful for the Hound. For without him, her time aboard the Mockingbird’s Song might have been far worse than it already was.

 

* * *

 

**Petyr:**

Surprisingly, Petyr’s newest crew was working out far better than he could have imagined. Quite splendidly, in fact. Everyone worked seamlessly together, minding his instruction without complaint (save for Arya, but that was hardly unexpected). Within no time they were on their way, skimming through the waves with a speed that nearly matched the Song’s. Petyr had to give the Navy its due, where the Interceptor was concerned. It was a fine specimen indeed.

They were a crew of twelve, ample enough aboard the modest ship to set sail with ease. Petyr stood at the helm, directing their course with help from his trusty compass. It was one of his most prized possessions, given to him by a sea witch with silver hair and violet eyes. The compass did not point north, but to what he desired most. And, as he was most anxious to retrieve the Song, its point led them on the path directly towards it.

Of course, Sansa Stark was also on the Song, so it  **_might_ ** have been pointing at her, given his thoughts as of late, but Petyr chose not to think about that.

As dawn brightened into day, the sun high and rather scorching above them, the breeze doing little to temper the heat, Petyr studied his crew, making observations based on their interactions with one another. Ellaria and Oberyn were heavily flirting with Olyvar, Shae, and Ros, all of whom gave as good as they got, at least until Tyrion pulled Shae aside with a disgruntled look on his face. Syrio and Arya had each instantly taken a shining to one another, and, whenever they found a few spare moments, Syrio helped her improve her swordplay. Gendry scowled, watching from afar as they sparred across the deck, clearly jealous, though Petyr could tell Gendry had nothing to fear. Arya’s interest in Syrio was only that of a mentor, and nothing more. Still, the boy’s eyes never left her, his temper increasingly foul as the day wore on.

Had Gendry not been so engrossed in watching Arya, he might have noticed that, in turn, Davos rarely took his eyes off of him. Davos had kept to himself for the most part, interacting with the crew only when strictly necessary. He’d always been a softspoken man unless his views were sought upon, and his attentions were too focused on the boy to pay much mind to anyone else.

Lothor bustled about them all, making sure everything ran smoothly, unbothered by Ros’ shameless flirting with both Oberyn and Ellaria. Occasionally, Lothor took over the helm for Petyr, though only briefly, for without the compass’ heading, it was far too easy to stray off course. The compass would only show where the Mockingbird’s Song was while in Petyr’s hands. Were it in Lothor’s grasp, more than likely it would be pointed at Ros, or perhaps a cask of ale below deck.

Fortunately (or rather, by Petyr’s design), the ship was amply stocked for the journey, with food, drink, firearms, and other goods aplenty, all courtesy of Commodore Stark and the Royal Navy, who’d been preparing the ship for pursuit of the Song when Petyr had stolen it out from underneath their noses. And with Ned’s own daughter, no less (the whole thing rather tickled Petyr’s fancy, his ego clearly still smarting from the duel for Cat’s hand. Though Petyr wished he had Sansa aboard with him, rather than Arya). This forethought meant that the crew’s needs were well provided for, whatever their penchant. Though of course Petyr had refused to allow them to partake in the alcohol beyond necessity, wanting his crew sharp for the journey and the confrontation to follow once they reached their destination.

It was during a quieter moment, when many of the crew had sought sustenance, their full attention unneeded for the moment, when Davos finally sought Petyr out. Both Gendry and Arya were below deck, along with everyone else save Lothor and Ros, a happenstance which afforded Davos and Petyr the privacy needed for such a conversation.

For a few minutes, Davos said nothing, his gaze upon Petyr one of contemplation. Petyr waited patiently, knowing Davos would talk when he was ready.

Finally, the moment came. “He doesn’t know me,” Davos commented, eyes now staring straight out to sea.

“No, he doesn’t,” Petyr agreed.

A pause, then - “He looks well. Grew up strong, much like his father.” Another pause. “And he’s in love, as well. And with a Stark no less.”

Petyr knew the irony of that, as did Davos, but said nothing, having no need to prompt Davos to talk. He knew the direction the conversation would inevitably take, even without his help, and it was better to let it flow more organically, in this instance.

Davos turned to him, his expression suddenly instilled with more rancor than regret. “I wish to know your endgame,” he said, lowering his voice. “I don’t know exactly what you’ve got planned, but I’ve the general idea.” He paused, then continued, his voice containing a hint of a threat that remained unabashedly unconcealed. “I’ll not let you put him in harm’s way.”

“I’d gathered as much.” Petyr consulted his compass and adjusting the ship’s trajectory as needed. “You know as well as I do that your blood is far more valuable to me than his.”

“Aye, which is why you used him to lure me into helping you with this doomed expedition.”

Petyr snapped the compass closed, slipping it back into his coat pocket. “It’s better this way, old friend. You cannot tell me that you haven’t been living in fear of the moment your throat is cut and you fail to die. It was only a matter of time before you were found out, and Euron killed you just so you’d join his purpose, while they combed the world over for the last coin. This way, we all get what we want. Freedom, revenge. The Song.”

“And what of the girl? Were you actually planning on rescuing her, or was that promise you made to her sister simply a means to an end?” Davos asked, shading his eyes as he squinted out onto the horizon.

“Both,” Petyr answered truthfully, having no need for pretense.

Davos grunted. “Well, I s’pose that’s better than the answer I expected.” He sighed. “And what of your plan? We’ll reach the island by nightfall, I imagine. I assume, as an integral part of the scheme, that you’ll clue me in?”

Petyr’s eyes darted to where Arya, Gendry, and the others were spilling out onto the deck, looking well sated. “In time. When we have the island in our sights, meet me in the captain’s quarters. We’ve much to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you're all probably anxious for a reunion between Petyr and Sansa - it's coming in chapter 20, at the end, and after that you'll have a lot more of them together - smut included ;). So not too much longer :)
> 
> A Gendry chapter is also coming up! Chapter 19 is all him, and you'll see more of his relationship with Arya developing :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr reveals his master plan for rescuing Sansa and retaking the Mockingbird’s Song.

_**Petyr:** _

Like all of Petyr’s schemes, his plans for saving Sansa, recapturing the Mockingbird’s Song, and enacting revenge on Euron and his crew had many layers. He liked to anticipate every outcome, and plan accordingly, and he rarely did anything without having a contingency in place. 

The most pivotal figure to the success of his plan was Davos (formerly known as Bootstrap Bill Waters, and Davos again before that. The man had a complicated history, to be sure), and, as such, Petyr revealed the entire scope of it to Davos, rather than keeping closed lipped, as he would with the rest of the crew. Lothor too knew the gist of it, though the finer details were lost on him. But as for Arya and Gendry, they were to be left in the dark for the most part, which was crucial if everything were to go off without a hitch.

When Isla de la Muerta was within sight, rendering Petyr’s compass and attention no longer necessary, he passed off control of the Interceptor to Lothor, and slipped into the cabin that housed the captain’s quarters. The trip to shore would be perilous, the rocks, countless shipwrecks, and mist making navigation difficult, but Petyr was confident in Lothor’s abilities. Petyr busied himself ensuring that his pistol was in working order, the edges of his sword (newly acquired in Tortuga) and dagger sharp, running over every detail of the plan he’d worked out in his mind while he waited for Davos.

Soon there was a sharp knock on the door, and Davos entered. They sat down at the table, seizing each other up for a moment before Davos blew out a breath of air and nodded. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”

“It’s quite simple really,” Petyr began. “At least on the surface.” He paused, knowing where Davos’ mind would immediately leap, and bracing himself for the small possibility that Davos might slug him in retaliation. “We’re going to go ashore and propose a trade.”

As Petyr had suspected, Davos’ gaze darkened, but Petyr held up a hand. “Hear me out, before you make your assumptions. Arya and I will go to Euron, and wait for him to discover that Sansa’s blood won’t break the curse. Obviously he’s assumed it will, because she has the medallion, and they are here. He’s desperate to break it, and, from what I’ve seen, so is his crew.”

“And you don’t think you should stop things before they kill her?” Davos interrupted, sounding angry.

“Oh, they won’t kill her,” Petyr assured him. “No, from what I’ve gathered, only a few drops are needed to repay the debt. And, as Sansa is a rather beautiful young lady, they’ll not want to spill more, in anticipation of breaking the curse and rejoicing in their newfound lust for life.”

“Makes sense, I suppose,” Davos reluctantly agreed. “What then? What of the trade?”

“Euron and his men will be desperate and angry when they learn that the curse isn’t broken. Before they lash out at Sansa, I will step in and reveal that I have the answer to all of their problems, and offer a trade - the boy they know as Bootstrap’s son for the girl they have little use of.” Petyr saw anger flash across Davos’ face and quickly continued. “Of course, you and I alone know that Gendry’s blood won’t suffice. Only yours will do. Which is why, while Gendry stays aboard the Interceptor, restrained, if need be, you’ll round up most of the crew and follow Arya and me to the island.”

Davos looked far less ready to strike him, but still wary, eyes narrowed. Petyr forged on ahead, getting to the meat of it. “You’ll stay out of sight, of both Arya and Euron and his crew, and wait for the opportune moment. Euron will, of course, be skeptical, as he rightly should be, but Arya, who will have no knowledge of this plan, will be angry with me. Her genuine reaction will seal the deal, and Euron will agree to come back with me to the Interceptor, to see Gendry and decide if he will make the trade. He will certainly leave Sansa behind as he does so, as his own leverage, along with the majority of his crew, if not all, and the medallion. That way, if he suspects a trap, the medallion will still be in the hands of his crew, and he still has Sansa as a bargaining chip, and her sister too, since Arya won’t want to leave Sansa alone.”

Petyr paused, taking in a breath, encouraged by Davos’ lack of objections thus far, then revealed the climax. “Once Euron and I are safely out of sight, you and the others will take Euron’s crew unawares. Protect the girls if needed, but get to the medallion as quickly as you can, go to the chest and break the curse. Then, proceed to decimate Euron’s crew before they catch on that they are now fully capable of dying. Years of life without fear of death have likely made them sloppy in combat. It should make for quick work.”

“And what of you and Euron, and the crew he takes with him?” Davos asked, looking fairly impressed, most of his anger depleted.

“Tyrion and Gendry will be the only ones left on the Interceptor. Before Arya and I set out, you’ll lure Gendry down to the brig, under some pretense, then lock him in, as I am certain he won’t stay willingly. I’ll tell Arya that I asked Gendry to stay behind, as it is far better for two to remain stealthy than three. She’ll be reluctant, but anxious to rescue her sister, and I think she’ll leave it be in favor of making haste. 

“Euron will likely only bring one or two men with him, if any. I’ll send Tyrion below to retrieve Gendry, and he’ll make sure they’re both armed before they return. We’ll start negotiations while I wait for a sign that the curse has been broken. I’ve seen it before, the way the moonlight changes them, showing them for what they really are, nothing more than walking corpses. And then, when I am certain my efforts won’t be wasted, I’ll use the pistol that Euron left for me when he stranded me after the mutiny, firing the shot that he meant for my death alone,” Petyr finished with relish.

Davos stared at him for a few moments, expression thoughtful, then he nodded. “And after that?”

“After that, the Mockingbird’s Song will be mine. Those left on board should be easily dealt with. The crew we came with, yourself included, will be free to plunder the island, filled with riches from years of Euron’s conquests. Leaving aside the chest of Aztec gold of course. They may come with me after, or steal away with the Interceptor, if that be their inclination. Once I have Song, I’ll have little use for it,” Petyr explained.

“And the girls?”

Petyr shrugged. “That depends entirely on them.” He paused. “Well, and on their father. Who is likely pursuing us as we speak, possibly aboard a ship known as the Dauntless.”

Davos’ eyebrows shot up. “And if he reaches us?”

Petyr smirked. “Ah, ye of little faith. I’ve planned for that as well. If my plans go awry, as they occasionally seem to, then we might receive some unknowing assistance from the Royal Navy. If Commodore Stark happens upon the Interceptor while I’m on Isla de la Muerta, Tyrion is to let him know that he should head straight onto the island, where his daughters are waiting, surrounded by the pirates that kidnapped Sansa. Hot-headed, and concerned for the safety of his daughters, he’ll blaze in and attack. If that happens, still break the curse if you can, then get back to the Interceptor, and we’ll retake the Song and flee while they all fight it out. We can leave the girls to their father and the Royal Navy.

“Now, if Ned Stark happens upon the Interceptor while I’m with Euron, the same still applies. I’ll send him to Sansa, then deal with any men he leaves behind to guard me until you get back. Then we retake both ships and flee. Both the Interceptor and the Mockingbird’s Song will easily outpace the Dauntless, and Ned and his crew will be detained in the fight with Euron’s crew anyway,” he wrapped up smoothly, leaning back in his chair.

Davos nodded again, then frowned. “What of Gendry? Do we leave him on the island, to sail home with the Royal Navy?”

“That depends on what he wants. I assume the two of you will have quite a lot to talk about, at some point. If he does go back with Arya, she’ll certainly tell him that his father was a pirate named Bootstrap Bill. He’ll want answers,” Petyr replied.

Davos sat there for a moment, contemplating this. “What if Commodore Stark doesn’t show?” he asked finally.

“Then we’ll make sure they get home, if that’s what they want,” Petyr supplied. “So long as it puts none of us at risk of the gallows. Worst comes to worst we’ll drop them off at Tortuga. They can find their way home from there.”

Davos sighed, expression grim. “Well, it seems sound enough, in theory. Let’s just hope everything goes according to plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer wait than usual. Carpal tunnel's a bitch. Next chapter is all Gendry, and then chapter 20 is Sansa and Isla de la Muerta!
> 
> Btw this fic is now seriously deviating from the movie, as I'm sure you can tell, but I think you'll like it :).


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry wrestles with his feelings for Arya.

_**Gendry:** _

Gendry was both grateful for and annoyed by the addition of quite a few new crew members to the Interceptor. It had been a lot of work, just getting the ship to Tortuga with only three people, and now sailing on to Isla de la Muerta would be considerably easier. Not to mention, he had no doubt that they were heading straight into a fight, and the crew of the Mockingbird’s Song was like to be far more than three people. 

It had been little more than a suicide mission to go along with Arya’s foolish (yes, he’d said it, and he’d stand by it) plan to rescue her sister. But he’d gone along with it regardless, because, the gods help him, he would do anything for her, to make her happy, to make her  **_see_ ** that he’d always be there for her, that no one was more perfectly forged for her than he was. 

Gendry hadn’t liked trusting Captain Baelish, and he knew Arya hadn’t either, but she was determined to go after her sister, and neither of them could think of a way around it. He didn’t have the heart to tell Arya what he’d long suspected: that if Sansa was still alive, she was probably in no fit state to return home with them. Arya seemed somewhat ignorant of the ways of men, her highborn status sheltering her from the worst the world had to offer, but Gendry wasn’t. Sansa was likely traumatized beyond recognition by now, and little hope could bring her back, even if they somehow managed, against all odds, to rescue her.

He had wondered briefly why the pirate hadn’t dashed Arya’s hopes yet, but then he figured it all had to do with the alternate agenda that both he and Arya had suspected Baelish had. Sure enough, said agenda was revealed during the man’s speech to his new crew, that apparently the pirates who had taken Sansa had also taken Baelish’s ship. Of course, Arya was furious (even as she’d known the pirate had been hiding something), but with so many new people aboard the Interceptor, she couldn’t easily curse out Baelish for what he’d done.

In addition, the new crew members had provided ample distraction during their journey, so that soon Arya was too busy hamming it up with Tyrion or Olyvar, or sparring with Syrio, to grumble about past betrayals. Gendry was glad for it. Initially, no matter how many times Gendry pointed out that they were still, according to Baelish’s speech, going to rescue Sansa, Arya was still intent on running Needle through the man’s stomach. And each time Gendry shot down Arya’s anger with good sense (they still needed Baelish to get to the island and find Sansa, and he hadn’t really betrayed them, technically), she got angrier at Gendry, until he wondered why he was even defending the man.

But fortunately Arya’s sour mood eventually turned for the better, particularly when Syrio started giving her tips on swordplay. Which, while Gendry was grateful for the way Syrio kept Arya’s mind off of Baelish and her sister, he also found himself more than a little annoyed by how easily the older pirate had captured Arya’s admiration. Gendry had been teaching Arya how to sword fight for years now, using the very same swords he forged in his blacksmith apprenticeship. He’d even forged Needle for her, lovingly crafting it for her for her thirteenth birthday. And yet she’d never once looked at him the way she was now looking at Syrio, like the pirate was a god amongst men.

So Syrio was an exceptionally good sword fighter, renown amongst pirates. Gendry didn’t think he seemed all that great.

Soon Gendry felt like he must’ve sunk into the shadows, becoming one with them, for all the notice Arya gave him. He set about his work keeping the ship steady on its swift course to Isla de la Muerta, and glowered at Syrio and Arya where they were practicing sparring on the deck. It was probably stupid to be so jealous, considering how Syrio was probably in his forties, at least, but then Arya had never considered Gendry to be a prospect, had even seemed angry at the merest suggestion that she was Gendry’s girl, so maybe it wasn’t so stupid after all. She clearly didn’t want him, so why wouldn’t she go for this old pirate she barely knew.

He sulked during mealtimes as she chatted with Syrio and the others, shrugging off any attempts made to include him in the conversation. Later, when the mysterious Isla de la Muerta was in their sights, Arya confronted him about it, while they were alone in the crew’s quarters, finally noticing he was upset.

“What’s eating you?” she asked, playfully bumping her shoulder into his.

“What do you care? Go pal around with your new pirate friends, who are clearly much worthier of your time,” he snapped, dodging away from her.

Arya snorted. “So that’s it? I’m not allowed to have other friends?”

“They’re pirates, Arya! You shouldn’t be getting so friendly with them,” Gendry insisted.

“Oh, they’re alright,” she said dismissively. “I mean, a bit rough around the edges, but I have to say I like them a lot more than most people I’m forced to talk with in Port Royal.”

“You shouldn’t. You can’t trust them. They don’t owe loyalty to anyone, especially not you. At most they owe loyalty to Baelish, and it’s not like we can trust him,” Gendry reminded her.

Arya raised her eyebrows. “Well aren’t you a right hypocrite. You were just saying earlier how Baelish didn’t technically betray us.”

“Because he didn’t, but that doesn’t mean we can trust him. He still could!”

Arya threw up her hands. “What is with you?! All of a sudden you’re getting on my case, and yet you had no problems before about any of this.”

“Well maybe I did, I just chose to keep my opinions to myself,” he shot back.

“So what, you think all of this was a mistake?” she demanded.

“Of course it was a mistake!” Gendry exploded. “Gods, Arya. I mean we’re out in the middle of the ocean with people we don’t know and can’t trust, chasing after your sister, who probably is dead or worse by now. And even if she isn’t, do you really think we could rescue her? Truly? Didn’t you hear Baelish, talking about how they’ve all been informed of the risks? This doesn’t have a happy ending, Arya!”

“Then why did you come? Huh? Tell me that!” Arya was shouting now, her face red, chest heaving, fists balled at her sides. 

Gendry didn’t answer. “Tell me!” she shouted again.

“Because I knew you would go with or without me, and I thought, maybe, just maybe, if I came with you, I could keep you safe,” he said finally.

“Then what’s changed?” 

He sighed. “I don’t know. Everything.”

“Well I’m not giving up,” she said fiercely. “With or without you, I’m going to save my sister.”

Before Gendry could answer, he heard footsteps, and one of the pirates appeared. It was the one with an eyepatch and a full, grey streaked beard. “The Captain’s getting ready to row ashore,” the pirate told Arya. 

Arya nodded, and, without looking at Gendry, left to go above deck. Gendry took in a deep breath as he watched her go, regretting every word he’d just said. Why had he chosen that moment to vent his frustrations? Why had he told Arya that he thought they had no hope of getting Sansa back, right before they reached the final stretch of their hastily cobbled together plan? Now she was likely heading into battle, her heart heavy with the knowledge that she might have gone all this way for nothing, that Sansa was truly lost to her. 

He was such an ass.

Gendry was about ready to follow her, when the pirate stopped him. “Wait,” the older man implored him. “If I might have a word?”

Gendry frowned. He didn’t know this man, hadn’t even spoken to him. Nor had he seen the pirate talk with anyone else. “Sorry, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“I realize that. It won’t take but a minute of your time,” the pirate assured Gendry. “I found something that might be of use to you, back in the storage crates by the brig.”

Still frowning, Gendry nodded, following the man as he led the way to the brig. “What is it?”

“The name’s Davos, by the way,” the pirate said. “In case you were wondering. I heard the little fight you just had with your friend.”

“Did you now,” Gendry said, his voice sounding bitter even to his own ears.

“Aye. As did everyone else aboard the ship.”

Gendry’s frown deepened, shame creeping up his spine. He hadn’t really meant all those things he’d said. That none of the crew could be trusted. In truth, he didn’t really know them well enough to tell such things. “I was just -” he began hastily.

“No need to defend yourself,” Davos said, cutting Gendry off before he could explain. “Best not to trust anyone you haven’t yet become well acquainted with. And even the best of friends are capable of betrayal.” He paused. “As for family, well, sad to say blood is no exception. Trust is far too easily given, and just as easily broken. For all the right reasons, and all the wrong ones too. In both cases.”

They reached the brig and Gendry saw, curiously, that the door was open. Before he could wonder why someone had unlatched it, Davos had swiveled around, a pistol in hand. In one swift movement, the pirate struck Gendry in the side of the head with the butt of the gun, and Gendry felt the ground rise up to meet him as a field of black clouded his vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop, Isla de la Muerta!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reaches Isla de la Muerta.

_**Sansa:** _

It was nightfall before Sansa was visited by the Hound again, and she knew instantly what would await her, once she left the cabin. His tone and manner were gentler, his look pitying as he took in her wretched state. She suspected she looked quite dreadful, but she hardly cared, with only Euron and his damned crew to look upon her. Any beauty she might have possessed wasn’t meant for their unworthy gazes, and she enjoyed the fact that she’d deprived them of that at least, before she died.

However, she didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of witnessing her despair, so she quickly wiped away her tears and summoned up the courage to walk bravely to her death. They would not hear her beg for mercy, nor see her tears. She would die like a Stark, standing tall and proud.

“It won’t be as bad as all that, little bird,” the Hound assured her as he escorted her out of the cabin.

Sansa’s first instinct was to make a retort questioning what he could possibly know of it, of how it might feel to die, but then stopped, realizing that he actually did know, in a way. He and the rest of Euron’s crew had all perished at one point, their hearts stopping, their lungs no longer requiring breath, stomachs no longer in need of sustenance. Euron had said that they felt nothing, and thus she assumed that she would too. After the initial pain of having her life’s blood drain from her body, of course.

The crew was all gathered up on deck, the lifeboats readied for their trip to shore, the island they’d sailed to without docks to make berth. Sansa couldn’t see very much of the island, so thick was the mist that clung to its shores. It seemed a ghastly place, only too fitting for the setting of her murder by a crew of insane, undead pirates.

Euron stood at the forefront of his crew, his monkey crouched on his shoulder, chittering away, the medallion dangling from its tiny paws. With eyes that no longer looked soulless and dead, as they had last night, but rather manic instead, Euron bid her to turn around. Sansa refused to comply, in a last act of defiance, only to have the Hound roughly turn her, at his captain’s request. Pushing aside her hair, Euron reverently draped the necklace around her neck, and carefully adjusting the clasp, his foul breath oozing across her skin. It took every ounce of self control she had not to reel away in disgust, and when he finally stepped away from her, she couldn’t contain a sigh of relief.

That relief was quickly snatched away, however, as she was turned back to face Euron, who copped a feel as he rearranged the pirate medallion so that it dangled outside of her dress, more easily caught by the eye. Sansa felt her rage boiling over at the impertinence, and wondered if perhaps this was how Arya felt all of the time, her temper always so quick to rise.

And then they were in the lifeboats, rowing to shore, and Sansa felt eerily calm, even as she knew her fate. Funny, she’d never thought she’d be so peaceable, heading for her own death at such a young age. Then again, she’d never given it much thought at all before.

In all of her fantasies, in all of the songs she loved, whenever she or the maiden of the tale was in need of rescuing, that bit had always been overshadowed by the hero’s sudden appearance, dashing in just in time to save the day. But no one was coming for her. Not this time.

Life wasn’t a song, and girls like her weren’t always rescued. Her father wouldn’t give up on her, that she knew, but she also doubted that this island was easily found. More than likely it was hidden with the same kind of magic that had cursed Euron and his men.

Sharp rocks sliced through the mist like daggers protruding from the ocean, impeding their journey, the choppy waves sending cold spray rebounding off the slate to dash against her skin. Sansa’s hands had been bound before they’d left, so rather than hug herself against the chill, she curved her upper body inwards and down, hands clenched together in her lap. By the time they bumped against land, she was shaking uncontrollably, cold and wet, and, though she still fought to hide it, terribly frightened.

They were in a narrow cave, a shallow river having carved its way through the island. The Hound helped her to her feet and out of the boat, then guided her along to follow the others, lit torches held aloft by several crewmen lighting the way. The path grew narrower still, the ground pebbled with rocks and uneven, and Sansa found herself grateful for the Hound’s assistance. Her arms bound, she had little way to catch herself should she trip.

The passageway they took snaked through the island’s underbelly, twisting and turning before finally opening up into a vast cavern. Sansa’s eyes widened as they took in the mounds of stolen goods heaped around the space. Everywhere she looked she saw the glitter of gold, silver, and countless precious gems, trunks of fine cloth and other valuable commodities scattered here and there. It looked like the conglomeration of years upon years of piracy, all for men who were entirely unworthy of such riches.

Men who were going to kill her, so very soon.

In the center of the cavern, surrounded almost entirely by water, was an island under the island, its height slightly raised above the rest of the space. An altar stood at its center, atop which was a chest, seemingly innocuous but for its place of honor. The Hound released Sansa’s arm as Euron reached for her, pulling her along the tiny footpath across the water to the little island. She stumbled, nearly falling in as he yanked her across, then did her best to stand tall as he forced her to face his crew, all of whom were leering up at her.

“My men!” Euron called, sounding near rapturous. “The moment is finally upon us! Too long have we been without the pleasures of life. Too long have we been starving, for food and drink, for the touch of a woman, for the joys that have been robbed of us.” He paused, then roared, “Well, no more!”

At this, the men cheered, their eyes glinting with torchlight, and Sansa started to tremble. Oh gods, this was it. She really was going to die. Dirty and unkempt, and alone.

She’d never even been kissed. Nor touched, other than Euron, and Joffrey, who’d thankfully never strayed beyond her hand.

And Captain Baelish.

Sansa wished he’d kissed her, that day they’d each rescued the other in turn. Far apart from her attraction to him, it would have been nice to feel a man’s lips on hers, before she died. Just once.

Euron was still rallying his crew for the moment the curse would break, for her murder, but Sansa hardly heard him. Tears were pricking at her eyelids, but she refused to cry, lifting her chin up higher, determined not to let them take her dignity away from her, at least.

And then Euron opened the chest, and she couldn’t help but glance downwards, spying hundreds of coins just like the one strung around her neck, all spotted with blood that had browned with age. She felt the necklace leave her skin, saw Euron take out his dagger, and shut her eyes, thinking it might be better not to see it coming.

Her heart raced, quickening with every second, as if it sensed its demise, and wanted to get out the lifetime of beats it should have had before it was robbed of them. Sansa waited for the moment to come, suddenly, fervently wishing that it would all go wrong. That her death wouldn’t break the curse, and Euron and his crew would continue to suffer to torment of being undead.

Of course, that would mean she’d died for nothing, but at least she’d have the satisfaction that her death hadn’t benefited them in any way.

Euron took her hand in his, and she flinched, knowing the end must be near. Then a sting sliced across her palm and she felt the press of cool metal against the cut, before Euron curled her fingers closed over the object. Sansa opened her eyes to see the chain of the pirate medallion dangling from her fist, then watched numbly as Euron directed her hand over the open chest. Blood dripped from her palm, spattering against the coins already inside, trailing down her wrist. And then Euron forced her fingers open and the coin fell, clinking softly against its brethren as it came to rest among them.

Sansa stared down at the pirate medallion, now reddened with her blood, newly returned to the chest. Unintentionally, she clenched her fist, then hissed in surprise as pain shot through her hand. Slowly, she raised her gaze to meet Euron’s, who was staring back at her, expression euphoric.

“That’s it?” she asked in disbelief.

“Waste not, want not,” he said, eyes gleaming. “We’ll have plenty of use for you yet, Miss Waters.”

Sansa felt her blood chill as she easily discerned his meaning. Oh, this was so much worse. Faced with such a prospect, she’d have welcomed death in an instant, if only she’d known….

The crew was getting restless, gazes searching, upon their own bodies and their comrades.

“Well?” asked one, sounding confused. Sansa thought the man might’ve been Reek, judging by his voice. And by the fact that he looked very much like he’d be deserving of such a name. “Did it work?”        

Euron rolled his eyes, then withdrew his pistol and shot Reek without a flicker of hesitation. Sansa recoiled from the sound, appalled that Euron would do such a thing to one of his loyal crewmen. There was a collective gasp, but, though Euron had shot Reek right between the eyes, the man was still standing. His eyes trained inwards, towards the bridge of his nose, as if he was attempting to see where the bullet had gone through.

“You’re not dead!” another pirate exclaimed.

“I’m not dead!” Reek cried, sounding exalted for a second before suddenly his face fell. “You shot me!” he accused Euron, sounding indignant.

Murmurs whispered through the cavern, and Sansa felt a moment of triumph. It hadn’t worked! Far apart from the fact that she wanted nothing more than for them to never feel anything again, this meant that likely they wouldn’t fulfill Euron’s earlier threat. At least, she hoped so.

Euron grabbed her arm, wrenching her back to his side, his grip painful. “Who are you?” he snarled, his expression venomous.

Sansa stared back at him defiantly, refusing to answer, and he shook her. With his free hand he snatched up the coin that still glistened with her blood, shoving it up close to her face. “Are you not the daughter of Bill Waters? The man to whom this coin belonged?”

She couldn’t hold back a smirk, even as her mind reeled with the knowledge of Gendry’s father’s name. “No,” she said, not bothering to hide her satisfaction. She hoped it stung, to know that he had failed.

Euron let out an angry growl then quickly backhanded her across the face, the force of the blow so hard that she saw stars behind her eyes as she tumbled to the ground. She lay there, dazed for a moment, listening to the pirates’ uproar echoing around the cavern, her cheek pressed against the dirt. As she struggled to blink her eyes back into focus, she suddenly saw a face, one that she’d craved to see again every second of every hour of every day since they’d met.

It was Captain Baelish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts appreciated :)
> 
> Also, if you just want to comment and don't want or need a reply, do let me know! I'll do my best to remember <333


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the best of plans can go awry….

_**Gendry:** _

When Gendry had finally come to, Tyrion was sitting outside the brig with a sympathetic smile, a flask of rum, and a damp cloth. Gendry warily drank from the flask before pressing the rag to the cut that still smarted across his forehead. Tyrion seemed uncertain about what to say, and Gendry let the other man struggle for awhile before taking him out of his misery and speaking, getting right to the point.

“I suppose there’s a reason Davos locked me in here that I alone wasn’t privy to?” Gendry growled.

“The Captain thought it necessary,” Tyrion said apologetically. 

“And what of Arya? Just what is Baelish’s plan? Did he even intend on rescuing Sansa?” Gendry demanded.

“Yes,” Tyrion said quickly. “It’s just, well, Euron and his crew are a difficult bunch to deal with. There’s stuff afoot that you wouldn’t be like to believe even if I told you.”   


“Try me,” Gendry snarled.

Tyrion shook his head. “I’m not all that clear on all of the details myself. Only the Captain, Davos, and Lothor know the full of it.” He paused. “The Captain’s a smart man. Whatever his reasons for keeping you ashore, I’m sure they’re good ones.”

Gendry snorted and Tyrion got to his feet. “I need to go back up on deck. I’ve already spent far too long below.” He paused again. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

“Uh huh.” Gendry turned away. 

He should have known he could never trust a pirate. Worthless backstabbers, the lot of them.

 

* * *

 

_**Petyr:** _

So far, everything had gone well according to plan. Davos had successfully detained Gendry, and Petyr had successfully convinced Arya that it would be far better for only the two of them to rescue Sansa (helped along by the fight that he’d heard them having below deck, along with the rest of the crew). Arya had been suspicious at first, wondering why they were going to sneak onto the island to find her sister rather than ambush the pirates with the full force of their crew, but Petyr told her it was best to try and get Sansa to safety first if they could, so she wouldn’t get hurt. And then they would seek retribution in whatever manner they saw fit, assured that Sansa wouldn’t be harmed again. That plan failing, the crew of the Interceptor were supposed to follow them onto the island after an extended period of time if they did not return, whereupon a fight would ensue. Overcome with worry for her sister, and anxious to get moving, Arya readily agreed, and soon they were on their way.

They’d slipped into one of the Interceptor’s lifeboats and rowed ashore, though not without some difficulty, owing to the fact that the mist made it hard to see the sharp rocks jutting out of the water at random intervals. 

The Mockingbird’s Song was bobbing along in the waves, not far from the Interceptor, absent of its crew. Petyr felt an ache settle in his chest the moment he’d clapped eyes upon it, and as he and Arya rowed closer to Isla de la Muerta, he had an urge to call off the plan, strand Arya, and make off with the Song. But that urge wasn’t nearly as strong as the one that kept him rowing deeper into the cave that snaked through the heart of the island.

Before he’d left the Interceptor, he’d pulled out his compass, just out of curiosity. He’d expected, and hoped, that its point would stop at the Mockingbird’s Song, the one thing he desired more than anything. But, and rather cruelly he might add, it hadn’t. Instead it had pointed straight towards his current destination, to the cave he knew presently held Euron and his crew, and Sansa Stark.

Honestly, he was such a hopeless fool. Mere minutes with the girl, and he suddenly wanted her more than the ship he’d loved and coveted for years?

What in the name of the gods was  **_wrong_ ** with him? 

Hadn’t he learned anything? Hadn’t he learned long ago not to give his heart away? That life was cruel, that, try as he might, he was never destined to get what he wanted? Not where love was concerned anyway.

Still, despite his misgivings, Petyr kept to his original plan. The lie that he told himself, that it was better to do it the way he’d planned, that that was the only reason he was still following it, didn’t help much, but he clung to it nonetheless.

When they finally reached the part of their journey where they would travel on foot, Petyr helped Arya tie up the boat then held his finger to his lips and beckoned for her to follow him. He knew the way, having been there before (he’d never taken any riches from the chest, wise enough by then not to tamper with such things, and his insistence that the crew leave it be had left him without his crew and without his ship. Never mind that there had been treasure aplenty besides the chest, the fools had wanted the cursed gold instead). There was one path he was certain that Euron and his crew would have taken, which lead directly to the cavern where the chest would be. But Petyr took another, lesser used path, one that would spit them out in the back of the cave and away from prying eyes.

This path would end in chest deep water, which was why not many used it, and, though Petyr was loathe to get into the water, it would afford them ample cover while they observed everyone, waiting for the opportune moment. He’d instructed Davos to take the same path, but to remain well behind him and Arya, and around the bend, completely out of sight of everyone (including Arya) until the time was ripe. Sound carried easily in the cavern, and Petyr had no doubt that they’d be able to hear everything, and know just when to reveal themselves.

He winced as they splashed into the cold, murky water, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Already he could hear Euron crowing about what he and the rest of his sorry lot would do once they’d broken the curse. Petyr had a grim satisfaction that they’d never have any of their hopes granted, which he deemed the perfect retribution for their mutiny and the theft of his ship.

Stopping just short of entering the cavern, hidden by an outcropping of rock, Petyr paused, reaching out to grab Arya’s arm as she made to continue on without him. She glared at him, looking furious when he shook his head ‘no’ at her. 

‘Why not?’ she mouthed, the silent words demanding.

“It’s not the right time yet,” he whispered, mindful that Euron and his crew were making far too much noise for a whisper to be heard. “Soon they’ll be distracted, and then we make our move.”

Arya narrowed her eyes at him, clearly wondering how he knew what was going to happen, but then she nodded, looking resigned. She knew as well as he did that they couldn’t take on the whole of Euron’s crew by themselves.

Of course, she thought they were going to sneak Sansa away somehow, rescuing her sister purely through stealth. Little did she know that Petyr had an entirely different scenario in mind. Rather, he planned to stride out openly, breaking their cover and bartering for Sansa with Gendry as the prize they sought.

But even the best plans go astray.

Arya had watched, confused, then horrified, as Sansa’s hand had been cut, but, since her sister’s life wasn’t notably at risk, had heeded Petyr’s warnings not to move. And he had watched, pride soaring through his veins, as Sansa held her own against Euron, standing defiant in the face of Euron’s wrath.

But then Euron had struck her, the sound ripping through Petyr’s own chest, and Petyr had struggled not to fly out at his former first mate in a rage, barely recovering his senses enough to keep Arya from doing the same. Luckily, her struggles were quiet but for the sloshing of water, and the noises Euron and his crew were making covered up the sound. 

Sansa had tumbled down the island’s slope, the pirate medallion that still wore her blood coming with her, its chain caught in her hair. For a moment Petyr thought Euron had knocked her out (or worse), but then she began to blink, before, suddenly, her eyes found his. Her eyes widened, and he saw the hope that bloomed there, along with disbelief, and something else he couldn’t quite define.

Before he knew it, he was moving forward, towards her, cutting through the water. Flicking his gaze occasionally up to where Euron stood, the only pirate likely to spot them, Petyr swam towards her, Arya following quickly behind. Sansa’s eyes widened, and then she was scrabbling closer to the water, her bound hands impeding her progress, and he’d reached her, his hand finding hers.

Heedless of the fact that her sister was there too, Sansa only seemed to have eyes for him. Her arms found their way around his neck, and he carefully helped her into the water, catching the coin caught in her hair before it fell and tucking it into his coat. 

As he helped her back along the passage they’d come, one of his hands caught between each of hers, the other gripping her shoulder, he knew he’d just ruined his plans, but he didn’t care. All that mattered to him right now was that he get Sansa back to the Interceptor safely. The rest they could deal with later.

They soon happened upon Davos and the majority of the crew from the Interceptor, all looking surprised to see them, though they quickly took stock of the situation and turned, leading the way out. Arya gave Petyr a suspicious glare but refrained from verbalizing her ire for the moment. Petyr knew that he’d certainly get an earful when they were back aboard the Interceptor.

Petyr moved as quickly as he dared, knowing that they needed to hurry - for Euron would soon notice Sansa’s absence - but also knowing that Sansa was likely weak from the ordeal she’d just been through. Not to mention, with bound hands, it was harder for her to keep her balance. Arya kept casting anxious looks at her sister, but didn’t speak, worried about giving away their position.

Finally, they were back in the lifeboats, rowing back to the Interceptor, and his heart felt lighter, knowing that soon Sansa would be out of harm’s way. She sat between him and Arya, shivering as they rowed, her eyes locked on his. Petyr wondered if she’d even noticed that Arya was there. Perhaps the poor girl was in shock. He wouldn’t blame her if she was. Her time with Euron and his crew had to have been an eye opener.

He only hoped that they’d treated her far better than they usually did captors. If any of them had touched her, there was no end to the wrath Petyr would spend upon them.

They reached the Interceptor without delay and quickly boarded. The deck was abandoned, neither Tyrion nor Gendry present, but Petyr assumed that Gendry was still in the brig, and that Tyrion had gone below to visit with him

He was half right.

No sooner had his crew resecured the lifeboats, Petyr carefully escorting a shivering Sansa towards the captain’s quarters, than all hell broke loose.

The deck was suddenly flooded with men outfitted with the uniforms of the Royal Navy, weapons trained on Petyr and his crew, Ned at their forefront. Within seconds Petyr and the others had been disarmed, taken off guard by the surprise ambush. Sansa was torn from his grasp and scooped into her father’s embrace, along with Arya, who looked relieved to see her father but disgruntled at the affection.

Petyr silently cursed his luck. He’d thought that Ned’s concern for his daughter would drive him to the island to find her. Instead, the insufferable man had retaken the Interceptor and laid in wait for Petyr’s return. Either Ned was smarter than Petyr had given him credit for, or perhaps he’d only just arrived, had spied them returning with Sansa, and decided this was the best way to retrieve his daughter. Whatever the case, this was not the outcome Petyr had expected, that was for sure.

Petyr hadn’t even seen another ship while they’d rowed out to the Interceptor, though he admitted ashamedly that he hadn’t really looked, too distracted by Sansa. Though really, with the fog and the black of night, it was nigh on impossible to see much of anything in the distance.

And it wasn’t as if any of his fellow crewman had spied Ned’s ship either.

But he could see it now. There the Dauntless was, piercing through the mist as it glided silently towards the Interceptor. It was packed with still more men from the Royal Navy, more than enough to take on Petyr’s crew and Euron’s men (if they were still mortal) and then some. Ned had certainly pulled out all the stops to rescue his daughters, that was for certain.

After a somewhat tearful reunion (during which Petyr could swear he even saw Arya shed a tear), Ned finally deigned to give his captives his attention.

“Put them all below save for that one,” Ned said, nodding at Petyr. 

Sansa broke free from her father’s arms to watch as Ned’s minions hauled away Davos and the others, all destined for the brig. No one resisted, knowing there was little use, as outnumbered as they were. Petyr watched them go with a twinge of regret that surprised him, considering he was well aware that his own fate might be far worse than theirs. When they’d vanished from sight, he turned back and caught Sansa’s eye. She looked distraught, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her still bound hands clasped tightly together. He wished he would have thought to cut the binds earlier, but he’d been too concerned with getting her back to the Interceptor….

Tearing his gaze away from Sansa, Petyr turned instead to Ned. “And what of me?” he inquired, instilling the question with a bored curiosity that contrasted with the fear prickling along his spine.

“You I want to keep a close eye on,” Ned grunted, nodding at the guards holding onto Petyr before he took Sansa and Arya’s arms and began to escort them to where his men had laid out gangplanks, bridging the gap between the two ships.

Petyr was marched along behind them, rather against his will, until suddenly Arya yanked free of her father’s grasp. “Where’s Gendry?” she demanded.

Ned stared at his daughter, a frown creasing his forehead. “Down below,” he said shortly, reaching for her hand again.

“What? Why?” Arya cried, stepping further away from her father.

“Because he’s been consorting with pirates,” Ned snapped. “Now come along.”

“Only because I asked him to,” Arya shot back furiously. “This was  **_my_ ** idea, not his, and if you’re going to punish him for it, then you damn well better punish me just the same.”

Petyr slightly admired her noble devotion to her friend, though he suspected that she hoped she’d get Gendry off by that logic, rather than be forced to join him.

“We’ll discuss it later,” Ned insisted. “Now is not the time. Now come.”

“No.” Arya crossed her arms defiantly. “I’m not going anywhere unless you release him.”

A vein throbbed at Ned’s temple. Arya glared back at him, then uncrossed her arms, reaching for her sword. “I’m willing to fight to get what I want.”

Ned let out a growl of frustration. “Fine,” he snapped. “So be it.” He turned to a man Petyr took to be Ned’s second in command. “Watch her. Keep her safe and out of harm’s way, and don’t let her near the brig,” he barked. “Is that understood?”

The man nodded and Ned pulled Sansa quickly across to the Dauntless. Petyr followed, again, unwillingly, and as soon as his feet hit the deck Ned rounded on him with a punch that would have sent him reeling if he had already not been restrained by two guards. They held him upright, making the impact that much worse as he wasn’t able to recoil away. 

Sansa gasped. “Father, no!”

Ned lowered his fist, looking satisfied. “Right, get him in the brig and ready for take off. We’ve already wasted too much time dallying about.”

Still blinking back blood, Petyr felt himself being hauled away. As they dragged him below, he thought he could hear Sansa making an impassioned plea in his favor, but perhaps the blow had meddled with his brain. His ears were certainly ringing….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry XD


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry learns what happened. Sansa hatches a plan to help Petyr.

_**Gendry:** _

Tyrion hadn’t been gone long when a burst of noise sounded up above. Not a few minutes later, Gendry looked up in surprise to see the small man return, escorted by two men from the Royal Navy. One of the men easily recognized Gendry, and whispered something in his companion’s ear before bustling out of the room. The remaining guard opened up the brig and shoved Tyrion inside with rather more force than was strictly necessary before locking the door once more. Slightly confused, a flicker of hope blooming inside his chest, Gendry ignored Tyrion and stood, seeking information. Had Arya’s father come?

“Do you sail under the command of Commodore Stark?” Gendry asked.

The man ignored him, so Gendry asked again, and was again met with silence. Gendry scowled. “It’s a simple question. You only need say yes or no.”

Still, the man refused to answer, only stirring from his post when his companion returned and beckoned him over. The two men had a brief conversation, gazes darting frequently to where Gendry stood, then nodded at each other in understanding and parted.

“Is Commodore Stark with you?” Gendry pressed.

Again, silence.

Angry, Gendry kicked at the bars, then kicked them again, and again, only stopping when Tyrion touched his arm. “Leave it,” Tyrion advised. “They consider themselves above speaking with pirates.”

“I’m not a pirate,” Gendry protested.

“You were sailing under one,” Tyrion pointed out.

Gendry glared at the smaller man. He was about to make a retort when more noises from above reached his ears and he quieted, straining to hear just what was going on. His heart lifted, then sank once more, as footsteps approached and the rest of the Interceptor’s pirate crew was dragged into view, accompanied by more men from the Royal Navy. The guard unlocked the door to the brig and soon everyone except for Captain Baelish was crammed into the cell along with Gendry and Tyrion. 

Arya was noticeably absent.

The men from the Royal Navy who had escorted the pirates scattered, leaving one of their ranks behind to help watch the prisoners. Gendry didn’t recognize the new guard, but he doubted this one would be forthcoming either.

Needing information, and not caring how he got it, Gendry turned to the pirates. “What happened?” he demanded.

“Commodore Stark’s aboard,” grunted Lothor. “He took the Captain with ‘im.”

“And Arya? Sansa?” Gendry asked, his throat tight. Had they made it back safely? 

“They’re fine,” Ros confirmed. She exchanged a look with Davos. Gendry avoided looking at the older man, still angry at the betrayal. “Things went down rather differently than we expected,” Ros continued, “though I don’t know why Petyr changed his mind.”

“My guess is he saw an opening to do it without bloodshed and took it,” chipped in Ellaria. “Though I hardly know why. Sure, he got the girl, but what of his ship? And the treasure he promised us?”

Oberyn shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense,” he agreed.

Gendry didn’t care what Baelish’s reasons were. Arya and Sansa were safe - that was all that mattered.. Although he really wished he was with them. He couldn’t understand why, if what Ros had said was true, why was he shut into the brig with the rest of the pirates? Surely Commodore Stark didn’t think Gendry had turned to piracy for any other reason than to help the man’s daughters….

He didn’t want to ask them, to reveal weakness, but he had to know. “Does the Commodore know I’m here? Does Arya?”   


The looks on their faces said everything he needed to know. Gendry turned to face the wall instead, despair riding a strong current through his heart. 

 

* * *

 

_**Sansa:** _

“Father, you can’t!” Sansa pleaded, trailing after her father as he ordered about his crew, busy readying the Dauntless to depart.

“I can and I will,” Commodore Stark snapped, stomping across the deck.

“But he saved me!” she insisted. “Twice now. You can’t just ignore - ”

Her father reeled around and glowered at her. “I’ll excuse your insolence for the ordeal you’ve just suffered, but I’ll hear no further word about it. The matter is settled, Sansa. The man is a pirate, and whatever you might think of him, he’s not a good man. He kidnapped your sister and stole a ship from the Royal Navy, along with countless other infractions, and he must suffer the consequences.”

“He didn’t kidnap Arya, she went to him for help,” Sansa countered. Arya hadn’t said so, but she’d gathered as much from what Arya had said earlier when arguing Gendry’s case.

“Enough.” Commodore Stark closed his eyes and rubbed at the space between his eyebrows. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Sansa, but this is not open for discussion.”

Without another word he took her by the arm and led her to the captain’s quarters, ushering her inside. Sansa had silently fumed as they walked, mind already working to try and figure out a way to help Captain Baelish, but when her father made to leave her alone she couldn’t help but try and make him see reason again.

Commodore Stark ignored her. “There’s clothes for you to change into in that trunk over there, and a washstation for you to get cleaned up. You’re not to leave this cabin under any circumstances.” He paused. “Do I make myself clear?”

Sansa turned away from him rather than answering, and he huffed before leaving, slamming the door closed behind him with more force than necessary. She responded with her own huff of indignation, then sank wearily into a chair, her head falling into her hands. Suddenly, she was exhausted beyond belief.

Ever since she’d opened her eyes to see Captain Baelish, she’d been in somewhat of a daze. Logically, she thought it might have had something to do with how hard Euron had struck her, as well as the shock from what she still thought of as a near death experience, since she’d been convinced she was about to die, even if that hadn’t turned out to be the case. But she felt it was far more than that.

It had felt like a dream come true, seeing that he’d come to rescue her after all, a feat which all logic had told her was near impossible. He didn’t know her but for the few spare minutes they’d had after he’d rescued her for the first time. And he’d been in jail, awaiting the gallows. But somehow he’d found a way to come for her regardless. Somehow, her fantasies had come to life, as if she’d wished hard enough to make it a reality.

It felt disconcerting, and also wonderful, and though she had been dimly aware of Arya’s presence, Sansa had fixated on Captain Baelish completely as he’d helped her off of the island. She couldn’t help it, even as she knew there had to be more to the story, even as she knew Arya must have done everything she could to come for her. Suddenly her entire worldview had changed again, and the effect was throwing her startlingly off balance.

Sansa had thought that life couldn’t possibly measure up to the tales she’d loved as a little girl. She’d spent years breaking herself of allowing the stories to keep her naive of the world around her. But her time aboard the Mockingbird’s Song had awoken her to an entirely new facet of life. Before she would have scoffed at the notion of a curse, of undead men, and of a world of magic few knew of. But she’d seen the proof of all of it with her own two eyes.

And now, against all odds, she’d been rescued, and by Captain Baelish of all people, just as she’d hoped for. The captured maiden had indeed been rescued by her heart’s desire, just like in the stories. For once, real life had surprised her and become the fairy tale. 

The world was still a ghastly place, of that much she was sure. But she was starting to realize that the line between stories and reality wasn’t as clear cut as she’d previously assumed. And this both frightened and exhilarated her like never before.

After a few minutes, Sansa rose from the chair, determined to get cleaned up and wash away the stench of Euron and his deplorable crew as best she good. She peeled away her sodden clothes and threw them aside, knowing that even if they were salvageable, she didn’t ever want to lay eyes upon them again, let alone wear them. Then, using the limited resources available to her, she washed up, and redressed in clean, dry clothes, before grabbing a blanket and curling up in a chair to ponder her next move.

Now that her head was slightly clearer, she felt guilty for not hugging and thanking her sister immediately. Arya had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to come for her, and Gendry too, and yet Sansa had only had eyes for Captain Baelish. Unfortunately, Arya had stayed behind on the Interceptor, in a show of solidarity with Gendry, so Sansa couldn’t remedy that slight just yet. Sansa still couldn’t believe her father had imprisoned Gendry along with the pirates. She’d known that Commodore Stark would show the pirates no mercy, even Captain Baelish, though she’d hoped otherwise, considering he’d rescued her twice now. But what possible reason could her father have for locking Gendry away?

Perhaps Commodore Stark blamed Gendry for Arya’s disappearance. Sansa knew, of course, that with or without Gendry’s assistance, Arya would have enlisted Captain Baelish’s help and gone off to rescue her. But their father was probably looking for someone to blame, and, without being able to attack the men who’d captured Sansa, he’d settled on scapegoating Gendry and Captain Baelish instead.

Sansa wondered briefly why her father had not stayed to fight Euron, before realizing that whatever his reasons, it was best that he hadn’t. Even with all of the men Commodore Stark had brought along with him, they would be no match for the undead. Of course, her father hadn’t known of the crew’s curse, but she thought that maybe he hadn’t wanted to risk that Sansa and Arya could get hurt in the ensuing battle.

Despite that, Sansa suspected that Euron and his crew would be relentless in their pursuit. Captain Baelish now had the pirate medallion, and they were likely out for blood, angry that she’d escaped with it. It was inevitable that Commodore Stark would have a fight whether he wanted one or not.

And therein, she thought, might lay the opportunity she needed to repay her debt to Captain Baelish and rescue him in turn. It was a horrible wish, to hope that the Mockingbird’s Song would find the Dauntless and the Interceptor, and attack, possibly killing countless men, and putting her father and Arya at risk. And after they’d gone to so much trouble to rescue her. But she couldn’t stop herself from wishing it all the same.

A battle would give her the perfect opportunity to sneak out and down to the brig, where she could free the Captain. And, perhaps, flee with him too.

It wouldn’t be entirely selfish to free Captain Baelish, anyway. If the medallion drew Euron and his crew to attack the Dauntless, then sending Captain Baelish away with it would eventually draw them away from the Dauntless as well. Captain Baelish could get far enough away from the Dauntless and the Interceptor and then pitch the blasted coin into the ocean. Then Euron and his crew would be busy searching for the coin beneath the waves and hopefully leave everyone she cared about alone. He wanted it badly enough that she was confident that he wouldn’t waste time butchering everyone aboard the Dauntless if he realized that the coin was gone.

So really, she’d be saving everyone by freeing the Captain. It was in everyone’s best interests that she do so. Even if wishing for the circumstances with which she could free him wasn’t. And even if she would be hurting her father and sister if she actually dared to leave with Captain Baelish. 

Still, she wanted to. Oh gods did she want to. If only he wanted her too, she would run away with him in an instant.

This thought firmly in her mind, Sansa dozed off and on in her chair, snug and comfortable for the first time in what felt an age. And then she heard the sounds of gunfire, the screams and shouts of men, and snapped awake.

It seemed that another of her wishes was to come true tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you'll like what's coming next :). Those waiting for smut need only wait a few more chapters ;)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr wallows about his predicament before his fortunes turn again. Arya tries to help Gendry.

_**Petyr:** _

Petyr was still soaked, huddled on the floor in the Dauntless’ brig, his back against the bars, which dug unforgivingly into his spine. His cheek was still tender from where Ned had punched him, the skin around his eye swollen, though thankfully not so much that he couldn’t see. He was cold, but every time his body started shaking in protest he forced it to stop, not wanting to show any weakness to the man who’d been ordered to guard him.

He tried to get a bit of sleep, having little else with which to occupy his time, but his mind refused to allow him that reprieve, instead recounting everything he’d done wrong in these last few hours. If he had only stuck to the plan he’d painstakingly created, then perhaps things might have turned out differently. He’d still have likely found Ned aboard the Interceptor, but Sansa and Arya would still have been on the island, so Ned would have set off to rescue them.

Of course, Ned would have made sure to have some of his men detain Euron and Petyr, but considering Euron’s bloodthirsty nature and immortality, Petyr suspected they would have broken away easily enough. After that, it was anybody’s game, but at least he probably wouldn’t be in a brig in the Dauntless, off to the gallows once more.

Of course, in that scenario, Sansa’s own fate was rather precarious, which he misliked greatly. And so maybe he didn’t entirely regret this turn of events. At least she was safe. That counted for something.

Quite a lot actually. Far more than he was willing to admit to himself at the moment.

And, at least Petyr had the medallion. Euron was still fucked without it. Perhaps Petyr would drop it into the ocean, or find a way to melt it down before he was executed, rendering it impossible for Euron to find ever again.

He quite liked that idea.

Petyr was just ruminating about having the coin made into hundreds of little golden beads and scattering them into the wind just before he met his end, when he heard a commotion from up above. He straightened, peering up (though he hardly knew why, considering he wasn’t about to see through the floorboards) as the sounds of carnage reached his ears. The guard froze, looking terrified, then abandoned his post.

Petyr smirked. He should have known. He’d been so busy engrossed in self pity and self flagellation that he’d forgotten the inevitable. 

Euron was here - the Dauntless and the Interceptor no match for the Mockingbird’s Song, even with a head start - and he wanted the medallion. At any cost.

Petyr was just thinking up how he might turn this situation to his advantage when his advantage found him instead. 

The sounds of someone creeping down the ladder reached Petyr’s ears, and he quickly got to his feet, wishing the guard hadn’t thought to take away his weapons. He searched frantically around for something to use to defend himself, but in fact he needn’t have bothered.

Rather than one of Euron’s damned crew, none other than Sansa Stark appeared, her eyes bright with mischief. She stepped free of the ladder and met his gaze, smiling at him briefly before she cast her eyes around, alighting on the key hung upon a nail on the wall. Petyr watched, dumbstruck, as she snatched up the key and darted over to his cell, quickly unlocking it before yanking open the door.

Sansa stared at him triumphantly for a moment, still holding the key, and he stared back, completely taken off guard. She’d come for him, risking her life to set him free. 

Without thinking, Petyr stepped forward, cupping her head in his hands, and kissed her, hard. She let out a little gasp of surprise, but didn’t pull away, stepping closer instead, her hands gripping his coat. Emboldened, he didn’t stop, his hand slipping into her hair as he kissed her harder still.

He might have continued as such were it not for the sudden boom of cannonfire, and the resounding crack of wood breaking just above their heads. 

Petyr broke away, his eyes immediately training on the ceiling, his sense of self preservation overtaking lust for the moment. Luckily, whatever destruction they’d heard had not damaged their section of the ship, though he wasn’t foolish enough to think that they’d be continually spared. Satisfied that they weren’t in any immediate danger, he glanced back at Sansa, who looked flushed and rather intent on picking up where they left off, danger be damned.

He wasn’t about to risk it, however, as much as he wanted to.

Still, he couldn’t resist leaning in for one more kiss, brief as it might be. When he pulled away, her eyes were shining, and he hated himself for not giving in. Instead, he took her by the shoulders and flashed her a quick, but genuine smile.

“Thank you, sweetling. Know that I am indebted to your kindness.” Unable to help himself, he reached up and cupped her cheek with one hand, then kissed her again before forcing himself to turn away.

Quickly, he snatched up and replaced his weaponry, tucking his pistol and dagger inside his sodden coat, and his sword into the scabbard at his hip. Then he turned to the ladder, and stepped onto the lowest rung, ready to haul himself up.

“Wait.”

A hand had found his shoulder. Petyr paused and turned, finding Sansa just behind him.

“Take me with you,” she breathed.

Sansa looked so beautiful standing there, her lips still red from their kiss, and really, who was he to deny her what she wanted?

 

* * *

 

_**Arya:** _

Arya was furious. That damned pirate had betrayed her, though she didn’t exactly know how he’d planned to, or why he’d lied and had the crew follow them onto the island. And then, briefly, she hadn’t cared what the pirate had done, because her father was there waiting for her on the Interceptor, and she’d gotten Sansa back, and she knew everything would be fine. Her father would get them home safely and Captain Baelish would be sent straight to the gallows.

But then she’d found out that her father had imprisoned Gendry on the grounds that he’d consorted with pirates! Gendry, who had only come along to help her, who hadn’t liked dealing with Captain Baelish in the first place! Arya had railed at her father about the injustice of it all, and yet Commodore Stark had refused to see reason. In the end, all she managed to do was stay on the Interceptor, where Gendry and the rest of their motley pirate crew were imprisoned, while her father and Sansa left for the Dauntless.

Of course, Commodore Stark had given his men strict orders not to let Arya anywhere near the brig, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her.

Sure, she was also still quite angry with Gendry. Their fight still rankled, settling into her bones, making her skin itch beneath her still waterlogged clothes.  She couldn’t believe the things he had said. Nor could she understand why he had said them.

Why had he been so bothered about her spending time with Syrio and the rest of their crew? And why had he come if he hadn’t thought Sansa had any hope?

Deep down, Arya thought she knew the truth, but she pushed it aside, uncomfortable with the notion. Gendry didn’t feel that way about her. They were friends. 

Just friends.

Except….

Except the look on his face when she’d dismissed the idea of being his girl the other day had seemed anything but that of a friend. He’d looked hurt, as if she’d wounded him deeply, far worse than when she’d accidentally cut him with Needle during one of their many sword practices. And suddenly, after that moment, she couldn’t help but wonder if he thought of her as more than a friend, after all.

She’d never even considered the idea of the two of them together before then. In truth, she’d never considered the idea of herself with anyone. While she knew that most girls had entertained the idea of courtship or marriage by her age, it had never been something she’d been particularly interested in.

But now, now that that blasted pirate had sparked the idea in her mind with his stupid trick, now she couldn’t stop seeing Gendry differently. Did he want her? Did he love her? Or was she reading too much into that look of hurt she’d seen….

And if he did want her, even love her, what then? Did she want him back?

She honestly didn’t know.

She did know that she didn’t like the way he’d looked at the women in Tortuga, particularly the ones with their breasts spilling out. At the time, she’d passed her rancor off as merely being annoyed that he would gawk like that, that she’d thought him above such things, but now she wasn’t so sure.

It was all so confusing, and she hated it. Why couldn’t people just say what they felt, and not hide away from it? If Gendry really did like her in that way, why hadn’t he said anything? And why couldn’t things just stay the way they were before, when everything was easy, and she never fought with her best friend but for with swords, and they talked and laughed and hid absolutely nothing from one another.

Arya couldn’t understand it, and perhaps that was why she’d been avoiding him more often than not while they were sailing from Tortuga to Isla de la Muerta. Sure, she had loved talking with Syrio, and learning from him, and chatting with the rest of the crew, but she’d also been relieved to put some distance between her and Gendry. Things had gotten so awkward, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

Still, even with their friendship as precarious as it was, she wasn’t about to let him rot in the brig, and she certainly wasn’t about to let him die for helping her. He wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for her, and her father was being stupid about the whole thing and blaming people who he had no right or reason to blame.

Of course, setting Gendry free was easier said than done. Try as she might, Arya couldn’t seem to effectively evade the crew’s notice for more than a few seconds. The men her father had brought along were stubbornly competent, which said a lot for Commodore Stark’s leadership, but didn’t exactly help her current predicament. She tried and failed, more than once, to sneak down to the brig, but never even managed to get below deck before she was herded back to the captain’s quarters and told to stay put.

Grumbling, she cleaned up a little and changed her clothes before pacing the floor, trying to work out a plan. She didn’t have much time to work with before they reached Port Royal, a few days at most, weather permitting. It would be best to free Gendry before they returned, if she could. The way her father was acting, every pirate aboard the ship might be sent straight to the gallows once they reached dry land. Though if she set him free, he’d either have to hide somewhere until they docked or steal away on a lifeboat, his fate uncertain as he rowed without any clear idea of where to go.

Frustrated, she kicked a chair. There were no good options available to her. Gendry was going to die, and it was all her fault. Sure, she’d rescued Sansa, and she was so grateful for that, but at what cost?

And Sansa hadn’t even said anything to her yet. Not even so much as a thank you….

Arya immediately felt guilty for that thought. Sansa wasn’t at fault, for any of this. And she’d probably been in shock, when they’d found her earlier.

Arya kicked the chair again, then startled when she heard a loud boom. Confused, she eyed the chair and kicked it once more, wondering if she’d been hearing things. Wood knocked against wood, the sound familiar, and then another boom rocked the ship and Arya struggled to maintain her balance, recognition blooming. 

It was cannonfire. 

Quickly, she dashed to the door and cracked it open, listening carefully as she peered outside. The guard that had formerly been posted outside the door was now gone, and she could hear now the sounds of swords clashing, and the crack of gunfire. 

They were being attacked.

Without giving herself a second to contemplate the ramifications, Arya darted outside. With everyone distracted by the ensuing battle, it was easy for her to sneak down to the brig. It was unguarded, the key hung on the far wall, and Arya snatched it up before turning to see her friend, packed into the small cell with the pirates they had sailed from Tortuga with.

“What’s going on?” Gendry asked.

Arya busied herself unlocking the door. “I don’t know exactly. I guess those pirates that took Sansa caught up with us.”

Lothor and the older pirate with the eyepatch (she wasn’t sure of his name) exchanged a look, but Arya ignored it. “Sorry,” she told them. “But I’m just setting Gendry free.”

Gendry frowned. “Why just me? If there’s a battle going on, we all can help.”

“I don’t want you to help,” Arya said, exasperated. “I’m letting you go so you can run. I’m not letting you die for me.”   


“But you’ll let them die? If you let me go, why not them too?” Gendry said. “They helped us. They don’t deserve to die. Not for this.”

Arya considered this, then nodded. “Alright. But don’t go helping those other pirates,” she warned. “Just get into lifeboats and get away.”

She opened the door to the brig and the pirates and Gendry filed out. Ros hugged her. “Thank you,” she told Arya. “We all appreciate this, small pint.” Her brow wrinkled and her smile turned sad. “That’s what makes this so hard.”

Arya frowned, confused, but before she could ask what Ros meant, Ros shoved her into the brig. Stumbling, Arya fell against the bars, crying out. She managed to right herself just as Gendry was shoved in after her, and then Shae was turning the key in the lock and both Arya and Gendry were trapped.

Ros grimaced. “Sorry about this. But we’re not just going to give up this ship. No hard feelings, alright?”

Arya flung herself at the bars, snarling. “I saved you!” she screeched. “You can’t do this!”

The pirates were unperturbed. They cast a few sympathetic smiles her way, then gathered up their weapons and disappeared.

Fuming, Arya rattled the bars. “That’s the last time I help you!” she screamed after them. “Bloody pirates!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 23 chapters in and you finally get a kiss! More to come ;)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa flees the Dauntless with Petyr.

_**Sansa:** _

He’d kissed her. Sansa had felt his lips against hers, a shock zinging straight down to her toes, the taste of mint on his tongue. With every second she’d felt herself drowning in the way it felt to have his mouth against hers, and she knew it would be a death she’d happily succumb to.

And then Captain Baelish had pulled away and thanked her, before retrieving his belongings and moving to head up the ladder and out of her life.

After a kiss like that, was it any wonder that she’d practically begged to go with him?

To Sansa’s surprise, he’d treated her to a smirk and kissed her again, before nodding his assent. Without another word, he quickly climbed the ladder, then helped her up as well, before they both crept quietly through the ship, careful not to alert anyone of their movements. With a battle raging above, they had little to worry about unless someone strayed below deck, but still, neither wanted to test their luck. 

Captain Baelish kept one hand on the hilt of his sword as he led her through the ship’s underbelly, the other holding fast to her own hand. The Dauntless was huge, and rather difficult to navigate for those unused to its layout, but he found the way nonetheless. Sansa suspected that he knew just how to take the direct route, likely having memorized it when he was taken down to the brig, but she figured he wanted to surface as close to the lifeboats as he could, and and as far away from the battle as possible. She followed him, heart pounding with excitement and fear in equal measure, the sounds of fighting growing louder all the while, until finally they reached the stairs that would take them above deck and he stopped.

Pausing to listen, Captain Baelish squeezed her hand, then slowly began to climb the steps, stopping to get a good look around before squeezing her hand again and darting up the rest of the way. Sansa flew up the stairs after him, then heeded his pull as he tugged her behind a pile of barrels. The air was clouded thick with smoke that stung her eyes, and she struggled not to cough from the sudden assault on her lungs. He noticed her discomfort and his eyes flashed briefly with concern before she shook her head.

‘I’m fine,’ she mouthed, not wanting to do anything that might make him change his mind and leave her behind.

He looked rather like he didn’t believe her, but he nodded and turned his gaze elsewhere, checking to make sure the way was clear. Sansa could hear the clash of swords and the screams of men, along with the pop of gunfire. Mingling with the smell of smoke was a stench that made her eyes water, one that brought to mind the horrible indignity of death. Fighting back her revulsion, she waited patiently, then followed the Captain as he tugged her over to the lifeboats.

Releasing her hand, he quickly set to work readying their escape. Having no idea what to do to help, Sansa decided to keep a lookout, wringing her hands as she expected to see someone from Euron’s crew (or from the Royal Navy) any minute now. Fortunately, the battle seemed predominantly focused on the other side of the Dauntless, leaving their escape unencumbered. 

In no time they were both in the boat and quickly lowered to the water. They had only oars to take them to wherever they needed to go, and the boat was quite small, but luckily it was a calm night, the breeze gentle, the water smooth away from the rocking of the ships engaged in combat.

It was only after they were in the water that Sansa thought to wonder just where they were going. The Interceptor was also under her father’s control, and she hadn’t the faintest idea if there was any land nearby. With the ocean as big as it was, they could be adrift for days, with no hope of food or water.

Captain Baelish seemed unconcerned, quickly rowing them away from the Dauntless, the Interceptor, and the Mockingbird’s Song. He didn’t stop until they were a great enough distance away that they couldn’t be easily spied, by either forces unfriendly or by Sansa’s father and his men. Then, carefully setting down his oars, he squinted up at the stars, his look calculating. Eyes lighting up, he reached into his coat and retrieved his compass.

At first, when he opened it, the point pointed curiously straight at her, but then he shook it and the needle spun, settling in the opposite direction. Captain Baelish’s eyes followed the trajectory the compass indicated, before flicking back up at the sky. Then he grinned and tucked the compass back into his coat before picking up the oars, ready to turn the boat to follow a new course.

Sansa frowned. “Your compass doesn’t point north,” she pointed out.

“Aye,” he said. “I know that.”

“But then, how is it of any use to you?” she inquired, confused.

“It told me where I need to go, sweetling. That’s all you need know.”

Her frown deepened and he sighed, halting his efforts to turn the boat for a moment to reach back into his coat. He retrieved his compass once more and passed it to her. “Open it,” he prompted.

Sansa did as he asked. The point spun for a bit, then, rather than pointing in the direction it had for Captain Baelish, it pointed in nearly the opposite direction. Then, strangely, the needle stayed still as the Captain began to guide the boat in the direction he wanted, though it should have moved to keep course with whatever it had been pointing at. Feeling still more confused, she glanced up at him. “I don’t understand.”

He cast a look at the compass, his mouth quirking briefly as he spied its new bearing. Then he frowned and glanced behind him before turning to her again, a smirk firmly in place as he resumed turning the boat and then began to row, his course set. “It doesn’t point north, nor does it point in the same direction every time.” He paused. “It changes, based upon the person holding it.” He paused again. “And based upon on what they want most.”

She stared down at the compass, not comprehending his meaning for a moment before it finally dawned on her. The compass was pointing at Captain Baelish, had in fact been pointing at  **_him_ ** the entire time she’d been holding it. And, at first, when he’d held the compass, it had pointed directly at  **_her_ ** .

Sansa flushed, her heart skipping a beat as she realized what that meant. Then her heart sank a little, upon realizing that, eventually, the compass had pointed elsewhere than on her for the Captain.

She bit her lip, raising her gaze to meet his again. He was staring at her, and the look in his eyes made her blush. “And how does that help us find our way back to safety?”

He chuckled. “It points to what we want most, sweetling. And right now, what I want most is to find Rumrunner’s Island.”

“Rumrunner’s Island?” she asked, her curiosity winning out over the pang she’d felt upon hearing that she wasn’t what he wanted most. At least currently.

Captain Baelish nodded. “Shouldn’t be too far away, judging by the stars. We’ve been most fortunate tonight. It’s the only land, save for Isla de la Muerta of course, for….” He trailed off and laughed. “For far longer a distance than I can row, that’s for sure.”

She smiled, but it was half-hearted, and he quickly noticed. “Not regretting your decision, are you?”

Sansa shook her head. “No.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Then what’s troubling you?”

She bit her lip, looking away. “It’s nothing,” she insisted. He just looked at her, and she quickly amended with, “it’s stupid,” her gaze focused on the compass once more before she tore it away.

Captain Baelish frowned, then his mouth quirked again, a smirk fighting to surface. “It’s about the compass, isn’t it.”

She looked away again. “No,” she mumbled, her answer sounding unconvincing, even to her.

The oars swept back into the boat and Captain Baelish leaned forward, gently prying the compass from her hands. She glanced down unwillingly as he took it, and for a moment her heart leapt as the point settled on her, before she realized that it still wasn’t inexorable proof that he wanted  **_her_ ** most. Perhaps he’d gone off course in his pursuit of Rumrunner’s Island. She had been distracting him, after all.

Evidently he’d realized her doubt, as he took her hand, gently tugging her over to sit on the bench next to him. As she moved, the point followed her, and her heart instantly lightened, a grin spreading across her face without restraint. His smirk grew, and then he was kissing her, and she flung her arms around his neck, kissing him back with everything she had.

When he finally pulled away, she was trembling, though not from the cold. He kissed her on the cheek, then urged her to sit back across from him, and picked up the oars once more. A quick glance skyward and then they were moving again, cutting through the water faster than before, as if he couldn’t wait to come ashore.

She felt much the same.

It wasn’t long before he’d spotted Rumrunner’s Island, pointing it out to her with a grin and a nod of the head as he kept up his efforts with the oars. Sansa grinned back at him, the giddiness inside of her steadily rising. They’d long ago lost sight of the ships they’d left behind, and with their absence and the knowledge of safety close ahead, she felt free.

“I never did thank you, Captain Baelish,” she said. “For what you’ve done. You’ve rescued me, twice now, and to say I’m grateful would be a grave understatement.”

“Petyr,” he corrected her.

“Pardon?”   


He smirked. “Call me Petyr.”

Sansa smiled. “Thank you, Petyr,” she amended, loving the sound of his name as she said it. Using his given name felt so right.

“The pleasure has been all mine, sweetling.” Petyr paused, eyes dancing. “It seems we are quite in the habit of rescuing one another. I saved you from drowning, then you helped me escape from your father. Later, your sister puts me in jail, then releases me when I agree to help her find you, which effectively means you helped me escape for a second time. Then, history repeats itself, and I rescue you, only to be captured by your father, wherein you assist in my escape for a third time.”

She laughed. “So it seems.” She paused. “It’s been worth it though, hasn’t it?” She felt it was. 

“Oh yes,” he agreed. “Very much so.”

She saw his gaze darken, and felt a familiar heat stir inside of her, and then they were quiet for a time, with only the sounds of the oars slipping through the water to break the silence. They didn’t speak again until they reached the coast of Rumrunner’s Island, and Petyr hopped out of the boat and into the shallows in order to beach it on his own, sparing her from getting wet, until she noticed the effort it was taking him and leapt out to help him. Together, they dragged the boat inland and out of sight, in case her father (or Euron) might come along looking for them (which was a likely eventuality), then struck out to the center of the island, seeking shelter.

Petyr explained that he’d been on the island before, and that it was the hub of a little known pirate enterprise that dealt in distributing rum. They easily found the hatch that hid the island’s vast supply of rum and ducked inside, rooting around for the other goods stashed alongside the alcohol. There wasn’t much in the way of food or other necessities, but Petyr assured her that the pirates that used this island returned fairly regularly, and that he knew them well enough that they could hitch a ride back with them to another port. 

Sansa didn’t relish the idea of roughing it for an unknown period of time (that is, if they remained unfound, which was an unlikely prospect given that Petyr still had the coin. She wondered what his plan was, concerning it...), but with him by her side, she knew she wouldn’t mind. In truth, she was willing to sacrifice quite a lot, where he was concerned. Had already done so, in fact. And she knew that he’d do the same for her, even without the proof the compass lent her.

Somehow, some way, she’d fallen in love with a pirate.

And it was everything she’d hoped love would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All alone together on an island. Hmm... Whatever will they do???
> 
> ;)


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A late night swim….

_**Sansa:** _

They’d built a fire for warmth and light, and Sansa had found some worn blankets that the rum smugglers had used at one point to transport some of the more delicate goods they’d pilfered over the years. She spread one out on the sand, weighing it down at the corners with jugs of rum to keep the wind from tearing at it, then piled the rest on top for use as cushioning or covering up. Petyr had gone off in search of a water source he thought might be nearby, once he’d finished tending to the fire. Neither of them wanted to settle for rum as their only source of refreshment, so he’d emptied two jugs of alcohol and promised to bring them back filled.

Unfortunately, it seemed that he had either forgotten just where exactly the pool was, or he’d gotten lost, since he’d been gone for far longer than she thought it should have taken to collect water. Sansa busied herself for a time with organizing what little rations they’d found (all hidden safely in a trunk they’d hauled out of the underground storage, to keep the animals from stealing any), and with searching for anything useful they might have missed in their previous look through of the goods available. But eventually, she ran out of things with which to occupy herself and decided that maybe she’d better go see what was taking so long.

Before she left their little camp, she snatched up Petyr’s compass, which he’d left behind along with his sword and a few other miscellaneous items he’d pulled from his coat. Sansa knew that the compass would lead her directly to him, as he, more than anything, was what she wanted most. The arrow turned as she held the compass aloft, then pointed obligingly in the direction she remembered Petyr had taken earlier. Heartened, she followed along the path the compass indicated, leaving sand to wander through trees and shrubbery, their leaves a deep, vibrant green.

It was dark, only the moon and the stars above providing any light, but her eyes quickly adjusted. Soon she could hear the cold rush of water in the distance, and she hastened her steps, twigs snapping underfoot as she wove through the dense foliage. Sansa could see a clearing up ahead through the trees, a small pond in its center. As she neared the clearing, she tucked the compass away in a pocket in her skirt, and slowed her steps, trying to be as quiet as she could, though she hardly knew why. And then she reached the treeline, and there Petyr was, in the middle of the pond.

Sansa clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp, and quickly ducked behind the nearest tree, heart pounding. Her cheeks flamed at what she’d seen, and she knew she ought to return to their camp, and let him have his privacy, but, somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to.

Instead, she cautiously peeked around the tree, chasing a better look.

Petyr was standing waist deep in the water, working his fingers through his hair, detangling the short strands. His chest was bare, and, she assumed, though it was difficult to tell with him half submerged, so was the rest of him. Sansa could see what looked like a scar bisecting his chest, a vicious slash from navel to collarbone, and wondered what the tale behind such a wound might be. She watched, enraptured, as he suddenly sank beneath the water entirely, disappearing for a few seconds before his head alone broke the surface and he took in a breath, pushing his sopping hair off of his forehead.

He hovered there for a moment then rose again, sighing, and began to wade back to shore. Sansa’s eyes widened as she glanced over to where he was heading, noting the pile of clothes. Losing her nerve, she turned away and made to leave, quickly, before he realized she had been spying on him. 

But she’d only taken two steps when the hem of her dress snagged on something, yanking her back. Startled, she squealed in surprise, stumbling as she was pulled off balance, before she lost her footing entirely and fell to the ground. Luckily, she landed in an abundance of enormous leafed plants, which cushioned her fall nicely. Unluckily, Petyr had heard her little mishap.

“Sansa?”

Silently cursing herself, she struggled to get back on her feet, still holding out hope that she could flee before he saw her there.

No such luck.

While the plants had been most accommodating in breaking her fall, they were less than helpful in assisting her to her feet. Sansa was still making a valiant (but apparently futile) attempt to rise when Petyr appeared before her, still wet and dressed in only his breeches and boots. She flushed even redder, and avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the hand that he held out to help her to her feet. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, still steadfastly looking anywhere but in his direction.

“Forgive me, sweetling. I hadn’t realized I’d been gone so long,” he apologized.

Surprised, Sansa turned to face him. “Oh no, it’s fine,” she stammered. “I just…” she trailed off, not sure how to continue.

He cocked his head to the side, eyes dancing. “The water’s quite lovely, if you have the inclination. I can return to camp, give you some privacy.”

Sansa felt her cheeks burn with shame, and she turned away again, certain that what he’d said was a reminder of the privacy she hadn’t allowed him. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I didn’t mean to, I just wondered what might be taking so long and - ”

Petyr chuckled, taking her chin in his hand and turning her face back towards his. “Love, don’t think on it. You can invade my privacy any time you wish.” He paused. “Though I’d prefer it if you joined me, rather than remaining a spectator.”

She should have rebuked him for such a forward intimation, but she didn’t. Rather, she quite liked what he was suggesting. “Oh?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

He smirked at her. “You can join me now, if you’d like.”

“I thought you were done,” she murmured, her eyes fluttering closed as his hand left her chin to smooth along her cheek, then tangled in her hair.

“One can never be too clean,” he replied, and then his lips had found hers and she sank against him, heedless of his bare chest, still damp from the water, and of the complete impropriety of their actions.

Sansa had already run away with him. Even if they never did anything more than kissing, she was likely already considered ruined in the eyes of proper society. Probably had been since the moment she’d been taken by Euron and his crew. And what did a reputation matter anyway, amongst pirates? She had chosen her path, and her man, and if she wanted to, and was already considered sullied, then why not make it so?

Her arms curled around his neck, fingers finding purchase in his damp hair. Sansa could feel the water still clinging to his chest as it seeped through the fabric of her dress, finding her own skin, a soothing balm to its current overheated state. The kiss deepened, their tongues touching, and his hands found her hips, tugging her body flush against his. Her mind swam, an overwhelming current of need flooding her thoughts, until she was certain only of three things.

One, she never wanted him to stop kissing her.

Two, she wanted desperately to go for a swim.

And three, that to do so, she needed to get rid of her clothes.

When Petyr broke away his eyes were darker than normal, and when he took her hand his skin was hot against hers. He led her to the water’s edge, then paused, as if uncertain that she was really willing to go through with it. Determined, Sansa turned around, lifting her hair to give him access to the laces of her dress. In truth, as she’d put the dress on by herself earlier, she was more than capable of removing it, but she rather liked the idea of him undressing her.

Since she’d done them up loosely, he had only need of a few seconds to pull the stays free, and, when he’d finished, she turned back around, smiling shyly before she raised her arms above her head, prompting him to continue. Without hesitation, he complied, gathering her skirt in his hands and gently pulling the dress up and off. Since she had nothing else to wear but the clothes on her back, he carefully folded the dress and placed it with his own clothes, then reached for her shift, pausing for confirmation first before he removed it and placed it atop the growing pile of clothes.

When he turned back to her, his eyes immediately dropped to her newly bared chest, and Sansa fought the instinctual urge to cover herself, keeping her hands steadfastly at her sides until he closed the distance between them and she couldn’t help but reach for him. His mouth found hers again and she slipped easily into his embrace, her arms winding about his torso. As her nipples brushed against his bare chest she let out a gasp that was barely stifled by the press of his mouth against hers, her fingers digging into his back. His hands found her waist again, then dipped lower, cupping her backside, toying with the edges of her smallclothes.

Sansa could feel her pulse resounding between her thighs, a peculiarity all its own considering that wasn’t its usual home. And she could feel the press of what she knew must be his erection, through his breeches, so close to where she suddenly craved his touch. But though she wanted this, desperately so, she was nervous, and so, before things went any further, she broke the kiss, and stepped away.

Petyr stared at her for a moment, eyes slightly glazed, before he recovered himself and frowned. He started to say something, but before he could get out a word, Sansa spoke first.

“Turn around,” she ordered, spinning her finger in a lazy circle to further elaborate her meaning.

Unquestioningly, he did as she asked, and while his back was turned Sansa quickly shed her boots and then her smallclothes, and tossed them with the rest of the clothes, before wading into the pond. When she was waist deep in the water, she bid him to turn back around.

If he was bothered by her sudden show of shyness, he didn’t show it. “Am I still to join you, sweetling?”

Sansa smiled. “Of course.”

As his hands went to undo his breeches, Sansa closed her eyes, not quite ready for such a reveal. She didn’t open them again until he was standing before her once more, her eyes fluttering open as he cupped her cheek with one hand. Their eyes met and she smiled again, her gaze dropping down to his scar as she smoothed her hands over his chest, exploring. 

“What happened?” she murmured, tracing along the scar’s path with two fingers.

Petyr sighed. “It is an unfortunate tale, one I’d rather not recount at the moment.”

Sansa’s fingers faltered just above his navel, so near to the scar’s end. “Might I hear it later?”

“Whenever you next ask it of me,” he promised.

She smiled, placated, then allowed her fingers to resume their trek, skipping over to the line of hair descending from his navel when she’d finished tracing his scar, though she stopped just before her fingers dipped below the water, losing her nerve. As her fingers lingered, his hand tipped her gaze back up to meet his, and then he kissed her again, and she was drowning, even as she still stood above the water.

The kiss was slow, his wandering hands slower still, never straying below the water, but both were gradually building as Sansa’s own hands wandered, exploring the sinews of his back, shoulders, neck and chest. Bravely, she reached for his waist, pulling him closer against her, until suddenly she felt him, hot against her upper thigh. But rather than shying away, this only emboldened her, and she stepped closer still, her hands slipping below the water’s surface to trace the contours of his backside. 

As if she’d sparked a similar boldness within him, or simply signaled that she wanted more, Petyr’s lips suddenly left hers to trail along her jaw and down her neck, where he found a spot that sent shivers arcing down her spine and latched on. His hands grew bolder, one squeezing her backside as the other snaked between their bodies and found her left breast, his thumb flicking her already hardened nipple. Sansa felt her back arching, and she moaned, her hands scrabbling along his back as she fought to remain upright. 

Luckily, he seemed to notice her dilemma, the hand not focused on her breast rising to support her back as his lips left her neck to take in her right breast instead. But soon even that wasn’t nearly enough to keep her on her feet, and her knees buckled. Petyr caught her before she went under (though she nearly pulled him down with her as well), holding her firmly against his chest, and she clutched him back, overwhelmed with the feelings he had sparked within her. 

“Perhaps we should go back, hmm? We’ve already left that fire unattended for far longer than is wise,” he murmured.

Sansa nodded, and, when she was steady on her feet once more, they left the pond. She averted her gaze as he redressed, and focused on quickly replacing her own clothes, wondering if maybe he was regretting kissing her. For why else would he have stopped just then? Was it truly just concern that the fire had done damage to their meager camp? Or perhaps he’d only realized the impracticality of continuing things further, there in the pond, since she’d nearly pulled them both under. She hoped so.

Whatever the case, she was certainly cursing her uncooperative legs, and desperately holding onto the hope that they’d pick up where they left off once they returned to the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it was mean to stop there. Sorry! You'll get what you want in the next chapter, I promise ;). I'll try to post it soon (perhaps Thursday). It's all Petyr and Sansa, and fairly long compared to the other chapters in this fic, so hopefully that will make up for it <333


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr tells Sansa about his past.

**_Petyr:_ **

Petyr wasn’t exactly sure why he’d stopped and suggested they return to the fire. Sansa had been naked and so willing, and surely he could have found a way to make it work where they were, even still in the water. But ever since she’d asked him about his scar, the past had been plaguing him, not with bitterness as it usually did, but with guilt. Somehow he’d suddenly regrown his conscience, and of all times it could have happened, it had come in the most inopportune of moments.

He’d loved Sansa’s mother once, enough to duel for Cat’s hand. And though those feelings had long since faded to little more than a sour taste in his mouth and the scar still slashed across his chest, he knew that, should Sansa hear the tale, she might question his regard for her. Even with the proof the compass offered her. For how could she be certain he hadn’t only fallen for her due to the memory she invoked within him?

Selfish he might be, but he couldn’t bring himself to go through with taking her innocence. Not then. Not when she might regret doing so, upon learning of his past with her mother. No, he couldn’t do that to her. Though she might doubt him, though it seemed impossible to have fallen so hard so quickly, Petyr knew he loved Sansa. He knew the truth of it better than he’d ever known any truth, even without the compass to tell him so.

That he chose her needs above his spoke volumes, and that he knew he would continue to do so said more still.

He loved her, and he would do what it took to make her happy. 

Even if it meant losing her.

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa:_ **

They returned to the camp once they’d dressed, neither speaking as they picked their way through the darkened forest concealing the pond. Sansa alternated between avoiding Petyr’s gaze and seeking it out, deeply conflicted by warring emotions that all depended on just why he’d decided to end things before they’d reached their natural conclusion. Should she be ashamed and embarrassed by her actions? Should she be concerned? Or should she not bother herself about the matter at all, his reasons for returning to camp having nothing deeper behind them than concern about their fire?

Whenever she caught a glimpse of his face, he’d hardly noticed her, clearly deep in thought, and her heart sank. Perhaps he regretted kissing her, her inexperience rendering her useless as a partner in such activities. Or, perhaps her body hadn’t been to his liking, once she’d shed her clothes. 

Perhaps he was regretting taking her with him at all.

By the time they reached the camp, the fire a bit smaller but otherwise fine and perfectly contained, Sansa was near tears. Without looking at him, she sat down on the blankets she’d carefully spread out earlier and bit her lip, trying to use the physical pain to distract her from her mental anguish. Petyr busied himself stoking the fire back to its former glory, then set about rifling through the food she’d painstakingly organized earlier, ruining all her hard work as he searched.

Finally, she snapped, getting to her feet and stomping over, her hands on her hips as she glowered over him. “What are you looking for?” she demanded.

He froze, then peered up at her, still crouched in front of the trunk, his mouth turned downward. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “It’s not like to be in here, but I suppose I thought I’d check anyway.”

Sansa frowned, confused. “What?”

Petyr sighed and closed the trunk before standing once more. “Mint. I try never to be without it, if I can help it, but unfortunately my stores are all still aboard the Interceptor.” Noticing her bewildered expression, he continued. “As a boy I took a liking to chewing mint leaves, and the habit stuck with me. It helps me think.”

In spite of her inner turmoil, Sansa felt herself brightening at this explanation. “That’s why you always taste of mint!” she exclaimed, then flushed red as she realized just what she had said, and turned away, face burning.

“Yes,” he replied, chuckling softly. 

Sansa scowled, mentally reprimanding herself for embarrassing herself yet again, and angry that he found amusement in her distress. Without saying another word she stomped off, not caring where she was going, only wanting to get away from him. She knew, in retrospect, that she was overreacting, that much of what she was feeling was only gained from inferred knowledge, but she couldn’t help it.

Maddeningly, he followed her, easily catching up to her, though in truth she wasn’t trying all that hard to get away. As much as she wanted to flee, she wanted him to chase her even more. 

And to catch her too.

Petyr reached out and touched her shoulder and she instantly stopped, though she refused to turn around, hugging herself in both an attempt to stave off the chill she felt away from the fire, and to shield herself from the disappointment she was certain was coming. As she stiffened under his touch, he jerked his hand away, so quickly she might have thought she’d burned him.

“Is something wrong?”

Sansa nearly melted at those words alone. Far apart from the confident man she’d known thus far, he suddenly sounded tentative, and so very vulnerable. But she vowed not to break. Not yet, anyway. For she was very vulnerable too, in that moment. And this close to unraveling completely, scaring him off with a sudden outburst of emotion.

So she said nothing, letting the silence speak volumes for her.

“My love, I cannot fix whatever wrong I’ve done to you if you do not talk to me,” he pleaded.

Startled, Sansa turned around. “What did you say?” she breathed.

As she watched, realization dawned on his face and he suddenly looked away. But she’d seen it in his eyes and she’d heard it from his lips, and her own heart told her it was true.

He loved her.

She loved him too.

Sansa kept staring at him until finally he met her gaze again. Something in her eyes must have encouraged him, for he hesitantly took a step closer, then another. Her arms slowly released their hold on her body, dropping down to her sides, and then he took her hands in his, gently running his thumbs over her knuckles.

“Are you upset with me for what I gather you’ve presumed - wrongly, I assure you - as a rejection?” he asked softly.

She bit her lip and nodded, eyelids dipping to cast her gaze to the ground.

Petyr sighed. “It wasn’t anything of the sort, sweetling.” He raised her hands up to his lips and kissed them. “Come back to the fire. I promised to tell you the story behind my scar, and now is the time you must hear it.”

Sansa nodded, then let him lead her back to the fire, where she perched once more on the blankets. Rather than joining her, as she’d hoped he would, he remained standing, then began to pace as he recounted the tale.

“Years ago, before I left civilized society to forge my way as a pirate, I lived in Port Royal. My family was poor, but what we lacked in money we made up for in connections, for my father was close with Hoster Tully, the patriarch of one of the more reputable families in the area.”

She recognized the name instantly as her grandfather’s and straightened, eager to hear more. Finally, it seemed she was going to learn the history behind both the scar, and perhaps Petyr’s connections with her father.

“When my parents passed, Hoster took me in and raised me as his own. For seven years I was happy, having grown close to Hoster’s three children, Edmure and Lysa, and Cat, who would one day become your mother.” Petyr turned away from Sansa and sighed. “I fell in love with her. With Cat. And, I was convinced she loved me too, for reasons I now put down to the foolish boy I once was, one far too attached to the stories I’d grown up with. When her engagement to your father was announced, a match initially made for only political reasons, though I’m told it grew into more, I challenged Ned in a duel for her hand, hoping to spare her of a loveless marriage. Your father refused at first, but I persisted, and he was forced to comply.”

Petyr sighed again, then continued. “I received the scar across my chest for my troubles, though your father spared me my life. Cat, who’d tried her best to discourage me, never spoke to me again, and, by the time I’d recovered, she’d married Ned. Weeks later, Hoster Tully cast me out, accusing me of sullying his younger daughter, your Aunt Lysa. Though I have little recollection of it, it appears that while recovering from my near fatal wound, Lysa did whatever she could to comfort me. She was forced to abort the baby, and I, cast out with no one and nowhere to go to, turned to the only option I could find at the time. I’d been labelled unfit by the very man who’d raised me, and by the girl I’d loved, and I had nothing left to lose, so piracy seemed the natural choice.”

Sansa stared into the fire, seeing Petyr’s past unfold before her eyes in the flickering flames. She saw his heartbreak, the pain far outreaching the agony he’d felt upon nearly dying. She saw too, her aunt, who’d always seemed cruel and unbalanced during their few encounters with one another, taking advantage of Petyr while he lay almost comatose. And she saw a boy all alone in the rain, with only the clothes on his back and his mind to rebuild his newly shattered life.

Petyr spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper, though it still pierced through her reverie. “I couldn’t let you go through with it before. Not when you didn’t know.” He paused. “I didn’t want you to regret your decision.”

Sansa tore her gaze from the fire and found he was looking at her. “Did you mean what you said?” she asked, voice trembling. “Earlier?”

His gaze softened and he walked over to where she sat, dropping to his knees before her. “Yes,” he breathed.

She swallowed, then licked her parched lips, daring herself to voice her thoughts. “Then I should like to you hear you say it again,” she whispered.

Petyr said it without a second’s hesitation, his eyes reflecting the emotion in his voice tenfold. “I love you.”

Her lips parted and then he was pulling her close and his lips had found hers in a kiss that, had his words not already convinced her, would have sealed the proof in her heart. And then he pulled away, cupping her face in both of his hands.

“Only you, Sansa, I promise you. I knew it from the moment I saw you on Isla de la Muerta. You were so strong and so brave, holding your own amongst Euron and his crew. Even faced with death you were beautiful, determinedly defiant to the last.”

Sansa could not pinpoint the exact moment as he had. All she knew was that she loved him too, and that it felt much like she always had, and always would. “I know,” she murmured, certain he would gather that she meant she believed him, not that she knew when he’d fallen for her. 

And then she kissed him, pulling him close, so close, until not a sliver of space remained between them. And still, it wasn’t enough. She found herself tugging at his clothes insistently, until his coat and tunic were gone (luckily she’d retained enough of her senses to cast them away from the fire), rising to her knees in a silent plea for him to undress her as well.

Soon she was shed of her dress and her shift, left only in her boots and smallclothes, her bare chest pressed blissfully against his as she willed herself to have the courage to remove his breeches. Finally she found it, at least in part, enough to reach down and palm the bulge that had formed beneath the fabric. A low groan rumbled through his chest as she tentatively stroked him, the sound spurring her onward until she was reaching for the ties and undoing them with trembling fingers.

When she’d finally succeeded in her efforts, she made to pull his breeches down, but he pulled away, breaking the kiss. “We don’t have to,” he rasped, voice even huskier than normal.

“I want to,” she insisted, reaching up to weave her fingers into his hair, dragging his mouth back to hers to seal her point. When he still seemed hesitant, she broke the kiss but didn’t retreat, winding both of her arms around his neck and nuzzling his nose with hers. “I love you, and I’ve never wanted anything more than I want you, in this moment.”

And that was all it took. His mouth slanted over hers in a searing kiss, and then they were on the ground and he was on top of her, his hands tracing every inch of her. When his lips left hers next they found her neck, then each of her breasts in turn, before traveling lower, down her stomach, until he was kissing her between her thighs, through her smallclothes. Sansa squirmed beneath him, hands scrabbling at the blankets, begging for more, not even fazed by where his mouth was, only focused on how good it felt. And then he’d stopped and she found herself whining at the loss, until she noticed his attention had shifted to her boots.

Quickly he freed her feet, tossing the boots somewhere behind her, away from the fire, before focusing on dragging her smallclothes down her legs and off. She shivered, from the chill of the night caressing her skin, and from the anticipation of something gloriously wonderful. Petyr tossed her a smirk, then bent and parted her thighs, settling between them with a look of wicked intent. As his breath ghosted across her sex, she arched her hips, releasing a pleading whimper for him to continue.

With a chuckle that shot straight to her core, he finally obliged. Sansa gasped as his tongue slipped between her folds, finding a spot that made her hips arch against his mouth and her hands shoot down to fist in his hair, urging him on. She could see the stars up above, shining brightly in the night sky, and she marveled at their beauty, until, suddenly she was shining too, just as brightly, burning within with unparalleled intensity, and her cries shattered through the breeze that failed to tame the heat within her.

Still reeling from the starburst, she closed her eyes, a smile claiming her lips before Petyr claimed them too. Instinctively she curled her limbs around him, dragging him closer, and then she could feel him through his breeches, brushing against her swollen, sensitive center, and that felt good too, so she tightened her legs around his waist, rocking against him. She felt, rather than heard him groan, and then he began to move with her, lips and tongue still clashing with hers.

But it wasn’t enough. Try as she might, she couldn’t find that same euphoria she’d experienced earlier. Suspecting she might know a way to remedy that, she stopped chasing it and unwound her legs from his waist, reaching down to grapple with the ties to his breeches. This time he didn’t stop her, instead helping her efforts along by straightening up onto his knees and unraveling the knots. When he’d finished, he quickly kicked off his boots without bothering to untie them, then cast off his breeches.

Sansa stared up at him for a moment, taking in every detail, then reached for his hand, tugging him back down to her. Their mouths met in frantic tangle of lips and tongue, and oh, she could feel him, hot and hard, sliding against her folds, and she wanted more still. She rubbed against him, loving the feel of his length along her sex, moans of approval escaping her lips unbidden, until she couldn’t take it anymore, she craved him inside her.

Tearing her lips from his, she begged him for more, and then he was filling her, and it hurt, but only just, the pain quickly subsiding to something far lovelier. Petyr began to move when she pulled him back down to kiss her again, and this, this felt right, and she could feel it again, that glow within her that sought to outshine the stars glimmering above. It was different this time, but no less powerful, and she dug her nails into his back, whimpering against his mouth as she shot into the sky to be one with the stars. 

He didn’t stop moving, though his thrusts slowed momentarily as she reached her peak, before quickening again, growing steadily more frantic. And then he quickly pulled out and she felt the loss immediately, eyes glazed as she watched him pump his hand along his shaft one, twice, three times, before he spent himself across her stomach. Sansa rather liked the way it felt, his seed cooling on her still burning skin, and she bit her lip coyly up at him as he hovered above her, chest heaving.

Petyr smirked down at her, eyes containing a similar mischief, and then collapsed on his side next to her, one arm bent to prop up his head as the other hand wandered, tracing her curves. She suddenly realized he looked different, his eyes no longer outlined in kohl. Likely, since she’d interrupted him earlier while bathing at the pond, he hadn’t thought yet to put more on. Without it he seemed younger, more accessible. Though she did like the kohl as well. It gave him a mysterious allure, and made him look more like the pirate he was, besides. 

Smiling, she reached up to curl her fingers through his hair before trailing them down along his jaw, enjoying the roughness of his stubble against her fingertips. She liked that too, and the way it thickened above his lip and at the point of his chin. And the grey at his temples was startlingly attractive, though she’d never imagined that would be the case before. He hadn’t yet earned the grey but somehow she couldn’t see him without it. Contrasted with his dark hair it made him look distinguished and even more handsome than before. So much so that she wondered why she’d never found such a look striking before she’d met him. Perhaps on anyone else it might not look quite so attractive.

Really, all together, she wasn’t sure she’d met any man she’d found more attractive, in every way possible.

Slipping her fingers back into his hair, Sansa pulled him down to kiss her again, sighing against his mouth contentedly as their lips met. Petyr kissed her for awhile, gently, sweetly, then pulled away enough to grab the pile of blankets she’d left nearby, covering them both with one before putting another beneath her head and a third beneath his own.

As she drifted off to sleep she knew she had made the right decision. Whatever might come next, she was happy, in this moment. He loved her, and she loved him, and nothing else mattered.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Gendry mull over everything while trapped in the brig of the Interceptor. Later, Ros pays them a visit with some surprising news.

**_Arya:_ **

Arya had screamed obscenities after the pirates, had flung herself at the door to the brig in hopes that it would give (that had definitely been a mistake, and gods, had it  **_hurt_ ** ), had even tried to use Needle to hack away at the bars (the pirates had been so busy shoving her inside, they’d forgotten to disarm her). Nothing had worked, and eventually she had tired herself out and joined Gendry on the floor, where he’d been seated throughout her tantrum, watching her with a resigned expression on his face. 

She hated him for not even trying (even though her own efforts had proved fruitless) and she hated him for the fact that had she not come to rescue him, she wouldn’t be in this mess. 

She hated herself too, for not hating him as much as she wanted to in that moment. 

Arya also hated the pirates, for betraying her when she’d been doing them a favor. And for the sounds she’d heard through her rage that signaled their taking back the Interceptor from her father’s men. Soon she felt the telltale signs of a ship cutting through the waves, and the sounds of battle faded into silence, and she knew that the pirates had been successful.

An ache settled into the pit of her stomach. She’d just abandoned her father (and Sansa) to the mercy of bloodthirsty pirates, albeit unwillingly. She hoped he would prevail. Commodore Stark was no stranger to sea battle, and he’d brought along plenty of men for the journey. Arya hadn’t gotten a proper look at the pirates who had taken Sansa, her view of the cavern blocked and her focus solely on her sister, but she couldn’t imagine there were so many that her father couldn’t handle them.

He would slaughter every last one and then come for her and take back the Interceptor. And everything would be fine.

Right?

Somehow she didn’t think so, though she didn’t know why exactly. Perhaps it was the questions that kept nagging at her from the back at her mind. Why had Captain Baelish brought the crew along without her knowledge. And why hadn’t Gendry come with them?

Gendry spoke then, his voice breaking her from her thoughts. “Well, it’s the thought that counts.”

Arya turned to him, scowling. “Really? That’s all you have to say?”

“I was trying to lighten the mood,” he said defensively.

“By pointing out my failure to rescue you? Wow, what a great idea Gendry! Next time, why don’t you just engrave all of my mistakes into a shield and give it to me, so I can forever be reminded of how much of a fuck up I am!” she snarled.

“That’s not what I meant - ” Gendry began, but she cut him off.

“Oh, it’s not? How else am I supposed to interpret what you’ve said?” she demanded.

He groaned and buried his head in his hands. “I just meant that I’m grateful that you tried, that’s all.”

Arya’s anger deflated, her shoulders slowly lowering as the tension left them. “Oh,” was all she could think to say.

“And I’m sure your father will be fine. And Sansa too,” he continued. “The Interceptor won’t get far before the Dauntless finds us again.”

She bit her lip, willing herself not to think of what might happen to her family if they didn’t win the battle. What if her father and his men weren’t able to overcome the pirates? She wasn’t worried about her own fate now, nor Gendry’s. Ros and Lothor and the others wouldn’t hurt them. They were scoundrels, and they’d betrayed Arya, but they wouldn’t kill her or Gendry if they didn’t have to. Which accounted for her and Gendry being locked in the brig rather than dead, in this moment. As for her father and Sansa, Arya was less certain about their fate. The pirates that had taken Sansa had kept her alive (though Arya hadn’t the slightest clue as to why) but Arya doubted they would be so merciful a second time.

“I hope you’re right,” she said finally.

Gendry didn’t say anything further, and for awhile they sat in silence, Arya still alternately stewing over what had happened and worrying about her father and sister. Then, remembering that Gendry might know something she didn’t, considering they’d been parted up until now, she asked him to tell her what had happened since they had last seen each other. When she learned that Davos had attacked Gendry and shut him in the brig, she was even more outraged, and then very, very confused.

“But why?” she asked, struggling to get the words out around the curses that kept flying from her lips at random intervals, her limbs too exhausted at present to expel her anger.

Gendry shook his head. “Hell if I know. Tyrion came down to see me, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. Said there were things I couldn’t begin to understand.”

“So Tyrion stayed behind too?”

Gendry nodded. “He didn’t stay with me for long though. Sounded like maybe he’d been left behind as a lookout.”

Arya scowled and drew her knees up to her chest, trying to contain the rage still boiling in her veins, to preserve it for later when it might prove more useful. “I don’t understand,” she complained. 

“Neither do I.” Gendry sighed. “What happened when you went to get Sansa? How did you manage to rescue her?”

She quickly filled him in, explaining how she and Baelish had sneaked in through the cavern to find Sansa and the pirates, and the strange ritual she’d witnessed. Arya still wasn’t sure why the pirate captain had cut Sansa’s hand, or what had angered him enough to strike Sansa. Vaguely, she recalled that the captain had asked Sansa if she was the daughter of Bill Waters, but since that didn’t exactly make sense, Arya assumed she must had misheard. At any rate, she chose not to mention it to Gendry, instead focusing on the fact that Baelish had asked the rest of the crew to follow them (excepting Tyrion and Gendry of course) without her knowledge.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” she growled. 

“Obviously we’re missing something,” said Gendry.

She rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

Though exactly what it was that they were missing remained stubbornly elusive. At least for the moment.

Arya scowled. She hated being left in the dark.

 

* * *

 

Eventually Arya dozed off, too exhausted to stay awake any longer, though had she had any say in the matter she certainly wouldn’t have slept. When she woke she was slumped against Gendry, who was thankfully still asleep, and didn’t notice or stir when she pulled away in alarm, her heart beating quicker than normal, even though she wasn’t afraid. Since they were below deck she couldn’t tell with any certainty exactly how much time had passed, but she thought that it might perhaps be morning. 

She got to her feet, wincing as she stretched her cramped limbs, then sat back down again resignedly when she realized there was really nothing else she could do. Heaving a sigh, she closed her eyes again as she leaned against the bars, hoping that she wouldn’t have to wait too long before one of the pirates came to visit, or until Gendry awoke at the very least.

If he didn’t wake soon, she had half a mind to help along the process.

Being shut away and unable to do anything about it was hard enough without having anything with which to occupy her time.

And she was so very, very  **_bored_ ** .

Finally she couldn’t take it any longer and ‘accidentally’ knocked the hilt of Needle against the bars of their cell. When that didn’t work, she ‘accidentally’ kicked at Gendry’s booted foot and he grunted, opening one bleary eye to peer at her.

“Sorry,” she said, not sorry in the slightest.

Gendry grunted again and yawned. “I’m not sure you know what that word means,” he grumbled.

“I do,” she shot back, offended. 

“Then you need to work on being a bit more sincere,” he told her.

“I was just bored,” she complained. “I’m going crazy, shut up in here.”

“Fortunately, you won’t have to stay in there much longer,” said Ros cheerfully, appearing in the doorway. “If you decide to cooperate, that is.”

Arya scrambled to her feet and snarled back a colorful reply that she was rather proud of, but Ros just laughed, unfazed. “Good morning to you too,” she said, stopping just out of reach of the brig.

Which was just as well. Arya still had Needle with her. She could have used it to give Ros a nasty cut, had the pirate come any closer. 

“Sorry about last night,” Ros continued, “and we really did appreciate that you freed us, but we weren’t about to let the Interceptor go, and we didn’t exactly relish getting stranded in the ocean.” 

Arya just glared at her. Ros sighed. “Look, we didn’t kill them or anything. Not unless we had to. We forced the few still left on board into lifeboats and sent them on their way.” She paused. “It was just as well, anyway. Had we left the Interceptor in your father’s control, it wouldn’t have stayed that way for long. Euron and his crew would have taken it, or set it aflame. And you, small pint, you would have died with the rest.”

Arya paled. “What?”

Ros’ expression turned pinched. “I’m sorry, but there’s a good chance that your father is dead. Euron and his crew, they’re not a force easily reckoned with.”

Gendry put his hand on Arya’s arm but she jerked it away. “But my father’s men outnumbered those pirates several times over,” she insisted.

Ros smiled sadly. “That counts for very little when you’re facing a cursed crew that cannot be killed.”

Gendry made a noise of disbelief. “That’s low, even for you,” he snapped. “We may be young, but we’re not stupid. There’s no such thing as curses.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Ros said. “I swear it.”

“And yet we still don’t believe you,” Arya said. “Funny how it works, when someone betrays you. Suddenly you no longer trust them, or anything they say.”

Ros sighed again. “You’ll believe me soon enough. We won’t be able to evade Euron forever, and then you’ll see the proof of the curse before your own eyes.” She paused, then added, “Although I think perhaps you’ll trust your sister’s word before it comes to that, if nothing else.”

Arya rushed forward, gripping the bars in tightened fists. “Sansa? She’s alright? But how?”

“We don’t know for certain yet, but when we took the ship last night Lothor spied a lifeboat fleeing the Dauntless. Your sister’s red hair was easy to pick out, even in the dark,” Ros explained. “But by the time we’d taken care of everything, Lothor had lost sight of them. We thought maybe they were headed for Rumrunner’s Island, but none of us could quite remember where it was, so we’ve been searching as best we can. I came down as soon as we had the island in our sights. Thought you’d like to know.”

Arya felt hope blooming in her chest. Perhaps her father had left his men to deal with the pirates while he rowed Sansa to safety? Or perhaps Baelish had taken her sister, which seemed far more likely. Her father was far too honorable to flee while his men fought. Still, she couldn’t help but hope.

And Sansa had gotten to safety. That counted for something, at the very least. Even if she was with Baelish.

“We’ll let you out if you surrender that sword of yours,” Ros continued. “And if you promise not to make trouble.”

It was an easy decision. Though Arya hated to part with Needle, she hated confinement more. And she wanted to see her sister, to help search for her. To maybe even see her father again.

“Deal.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <333
> 
> Don't worry, next chapter has the lovebirds again ;)


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Petyr make plans to weather the dangers they know await them.

**_Petyr:_ **

Petyr didn’t sleep much, his mind far too full of the beautiful girl curled in his embrace, and the fate that might befall them should he fail to plan accordingly. They hadn’t talked much of the dangers that still loomed in their not so distant futures, nor about what they would do to face them. He’d told Sansa that he was on good terms with the pirates that frequented the island, that if nothing else they’d set sail with the rumrunners whenever they next stopped to replenish or partake of their wares. She’d been placated with this, far easier than he’d expected, in truth, and perhaps that was why he felt so guilty.

He’d given her false hope, when he knew, deep down, he shouldn’t have.

What he hadn't mentioned was that they might find another, far less pleasant way off of the island than with the help of the rumrunners. He still had the Aztec gold and he knew it would draw Euron and his crew to them eventually. But he had a plan. He always did.

He just wasn't sure Sansa would particularly like the plan. Nor was he certain that Gendry and the others had managed to escape from Euron. He hoped that Lothor and the rest of his crew would have been enterprising enough to take advantage of the battle and wrest back control of the Interceptor, but it was entirely possible they hadn’t. Still, it was all he had and he wasn't about to give up the leverage the coin afforded by discarding it in the ocean.

Unfortunately, this meant putting Sansa at risk, but Petyr hoped that he could get her to hide in the rumrunner’s hidden storage while he dealt with Euron. If it came to that. Which it might not.

He hoped it wouldn’t.

The rumrunners might be on their way back, even now. Pirates needed rum, after all. Perhaps luck would be on their side. One could only hope.

Hope was such a dangerous word. He knew better not to trust it. Time had taught him not to. And yet he hoped all the same.

It was funny, what love could do to a man. 

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa:_ **

Sansa woke the following morning with sunlight dappling against her skin and closed eyelids, warm but not uncomfortably so, the trees providing ample shade and the breeze cool as it stirred her hair and lifted the corners of the blanket still draped over her body. She had turned in the night, though she still lay entwined with Petyr, her back to his chest, his arm curved around her waist, both of her hands placed over his own hand above her stomach, their fingers interlaced. Smiling, she tightened her grasp, pulling his arm tighter around her, and he moved closer still, her backside tucked perfectly into his lap.

A little noise of contentment left her as his lips found the crook of her neck, and she turned her head as he kissed along her jaw, until finally their mouths met. Just a soft press at first, slowly deepening with every second that passed, and then her fingers curled into his hair and the slide of her tongue against his stoked the fire in her belly, and his length had found its home between her thighs. This time there was no pain, only a slight ache that was near indistinguishable from the ache that resounded with want, and she began to move without hesitation, clumsily meeting his thrusts as best as she could.

And then, suddenly, he flipped them so that she was on top, straddling his lap, and she broke the kiss, staring down at him with glazed eyes, unsure how to proceed. Petyr’s hands found her hips, urging her to rise and fall above him, and as she found her rhythm he nodded encouragingly at her, bucking his hips up to meet her as she fell. Sansa couldn’t help but grin at him, expression euphoric as she took charge of her own pleasure, writhing above him in a manner she’d never dreamed of doing before now. This was sinful and wicked, and oh so lovely and wonderful, all at the same time, a wealth of contradictions that somehow heightened the other and made her love every thrust even more.

This time, as she came, she threw her head back to see slashes of sky through the trees, a perfect unclouded blue, and his name fled from her lips, carried off on the breeze that cooled the sweat beading upon her brow. Struggling to catch her breath, she slumped down against his chest, feeling her heart settle as his arms encircled her back and he kissed the top of her head. She could still feel him inside of her, hard as ever, but he seemed content to just hold her for awhile as she recovered, and she was grateful for it.

When she was ready once more, she tilted her head up to capture his lips with hers, and he rolled them over again so that her back was to the ground. But, rather than continue, he pulled out and urged her to sit up and turn around so that she was on her hands and knees before him. Curious, she peered back at him as he smoothed his hands down her sides, kneading the flesh of her backside for a moment before he gripped her hips, pulling her closer until his cock slipped between her thighs, the head teasing along her slit. Groaning, Sansa sank onto her elbows, pushing back against him eagerly, and then he was filling her once more, the new angle allowing him to penetrate even deeper than before.

The pace he set was far more brutal than she was used to, but she quickly found that she liked it, and her moans were punctured with pleas for him to go faster, faster and harder, oh please, harder. Petyr’s grip on her hips tightened almost painfully, but she liked that too, taking a perverse pleasure in the idea of him marking her this way, a secret for the two of them to keep, hidden beneath her clothes. Soon Sansa had her face buried against her crossed forearms, her hands fisting in the blanket, her cries muffled by her own skin. One of his hands left her hip to snake between her thighs, finding that spot along her slit that he’d toyed with last night using his tongue, and within her he found another spot, striking it repeatedly with each thrust, until suddenly she was there again, among the stars that should have been hidden from her in the daytime.

Muscles spasming, she shook, waves coursing through her, and still he kept going, helping her ride the crests back to Earth, until he jerked back, her name hissing from his lips as he quickly pulled out, the evidence of his own rapture dotting against her skin. Sansa knew that it was smart of him to do so, the risk too high otherwise that she might become with child, but she still mourned the loss of the way she felt with him inside of her. However long he spent within her, it could never be long enough, as if joined this way they were suddenly whole again, a part she’d never known was missing coming home.

Smiling against her arms, she pushed her backside against his palm as he gave it a gentle squeeze, then swiveled around so that she was sitting up. Petyr sat next to her, breaths still slightly uneven, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, a soft smile still playing about her lips. Truly, she never would have imagined that she could be so happy, stranded on a remote island in the Caribbean with little else but the clothes upon her back. That she was with the man she loved truly made all the difference.

It was only after they'd gotten dressed and begun to break their fast when Sansa finally broached the subject she hadn't yet dared to touch. It would have been prudent to discuss it far earlier, considering the danger they were likely in, but she'd been enjoying their little respite on the island far too much to ruin it with speculation. Unfortunately, she felt they couldn't afford to ignore reality any longer.

"If you still have the coin with you, then Euron's likely headed towards us, even now," she said quietly.

"Aye," he agreed.

Sansa glanced up, meeting his gaze. "And do you have a plan?"

"I do," he said hesitantly.

“And?” 

Petyr sighed. “And I’m afraid you might not like certain aspects of it.”

“Try me,” she urged.

He studied her for a few moments, then sighed again. “Before, when I rescued you, I had a plan in mind. A plan that would have helped me rescue you  **_and_ ** retake my ship from Euron.” He paused. “It involved your sister’s friend, Gendry.”

Sansa was unsurprised to hear that The Mockingbird’s Song was Petyr’s (she’d already gleaned as much from eavesdropping on the crew), though she did feel a slight sting as she realized that Petyr hadn’t come for her alone. The hurt must have shown on her face, for he quickly continued, “In the end, when given a choice to still try and retake my ship as planned and possibly risk your life, or rescue you when the opportunity presented itself, I chose you. I’ve been chasing my ship for years, and yet in a matter of minutes you became far more important to me than the Song had ever been.”

All doubts erased, she rewarded him with a kiss, only pulling away when she remembered that Petyr had mentioned Gendry. “What does Gendry have to do with any of this?” she asked, confused.

“Quite a lot, actually. I don’t know how he came to your family, but at one point I knew him quite well, though it’s clear he doesn’t remember me. I knew his father, too. Bootstrap Bill Waters and his son were both part of my crew when I captained the Mockingbird’s Song. And, when the crew mutinied and left me to die, here on Rumrunner’s Island, neither Bootstrap nor Gendry were willing participants.” He paused. “It wasn’t long after that when I heard tell that both had been lost at sea, though later, through mutual acquaintances, I learned that Bootstrap had survived and was now living in hiding from Euron, still distraught over the loss of his son.”

Sansa well remembered the night they’d found Gendry, pulling him from the water as the remnants of a burning ship drifted nearby. She could still smell the smoke, feel the heat on her skin. Pirates had attacked a merchant ship that night. If Gendry had been with them, then those pirates must have been Euron and his crew. And the ship… the ship must have been the Mockingbird’s Song.

“Why did they mutiny?” Sansa had learned much while listening to the crew on the Mockingbird’s Song, but she’d never found a clear cut answer to the question.

“A disagreement over treasure was the last straw, but there were plenty of other issues that hardly helped matters. Euron, my first mate, had grown increasingly bloodthirsty and erratic as time went on, and I’d begun to regret the appointment. Not to mention, a few crew members he’d convinced me to allow on board were far from people I would normally associate with,” Petyr replied.

“Rams and Reek?” Sansa felt her skin crawl just from speaking their names.

He nodded. “I cannot think of anyone more worthy of abhorrence than those two. And yet still I tolerated them as best as I could in the two weeks they sailed under my command. I needed able bodied men to help me in my quest to find Isla de la Muerta, and they were competent sailors, if nothing else. The island was said to hold riches beyond any man’s wildest dreams, and as a man who’d turned to piracy unwillingly, I had hopes of using some of this wealth to put towards a more palatable future for myself. Unfortunately, I hadn’t counted on the crew’s lust for the cursed chest of Aztec gold. I had seen things in my years at sea that made me wary to tempt fate in such a way, and so I forbade the crew from taking it. There were plenty of other riches abound for them to plunder. I didn’t feel it was worth the risk. Obviously they disagreed.”

“And yet you were right all along. They took the gold, and were punished for their greed,” she said, shuddering as she remembered the way the crew had looked as the moonlight touched them.

He smiled, though the curve of his lips held more bitterness than anything else. “Ordinarily I would have celebrated such misfortune befalling my enemies, but unfortunately the curse only made things more difficult for me. Euron and his men cannot be killed until the curse is broken, which makes it rather hard for me to take back my ship.” He paused. “And that’s where Gendry comes in. And his father. The curse can only be broken when all of the gold taken is returned to the chest, and the blood fully repaid. Your life was spared because Euron found you with the coin and assumed you to be the daughter of Bootstrap Bill, the only one whose blood has not yet been spilt to reverse the curse.”

Sansa suddenly found herself grateful for the fact that she’d used Gendry’s last name instead of her own. Had she not, Euron and his crew would have been far less kind. The thought was too horrible to contend with for long, so she quickly shoved it aside, focusing on Gendry instead. “So you want to use Gendry’s blood to break the curse?”

Petyr grimaced. “I’m afraid it’s far more complicated than that, sweetling. Suffice it to say that I had hoped to use Gendry as a bargaining chip. Unbeknownst to your sister, I had Gendry detained on the Interceptor while Arya and I went to rescue you. The rest of my crew were set to follow me, and were supposed to lay in wait until I proposed a trade, Gendry for you.” Sansa bit her lip against a torrent of questions and nodded, prompting him to continue. “As I had planned it, Euron would then come aboard the Interceptor with me to see Gendry, leaving you and Arya behind with his crew. As soon as we were out of earshot, my own crew was to take the coin and break the curse before killing Euron’s crew. And, once I’d killed Euron, we would plunder Isla de la Muerta and leave with both the Interceptor and the Song under my command. Taking you and Arya with us, of course.”

Sansa frowned. “But how could you break the curse if Gendry was still on the Interceptor?” 

“Bootstrap Bill, currently known under the name Davos Seaworth, joined my crew in Tortuga, tempted with the prospect of seeing his son again,” Petyr said smoothly.

“Gendry’s been reunited with his father?!” 

“That I’m not certain of. Last I knew, Davos hadn’t yet revealed his identity to the boy. But it’s only a matter of time, I imagine.”

Sansa was thrilled for Gendry. So many years alone, of not knowing who he was or how he had come to be found on that fateful night he’d been pulled from the water. And now he would finally have answers. “But how does this plan fit in now?” she wondered aloud.

“A few modifications will be necessary, of course, but we can still use the same basic concept,” Petyr said. “I doubt your sister would have left Gendry locked up for long. Like you, she probably used Euron’s attack to her advantage. And, knowing the crew I sailed with, they probably saw an opportunity to retake the Interceptor and escape with their lives. If so, your sister and Gendry are still alive, though held captive by the pirates they sailed with to rescue you. Meanwhile, Euron probably stopped attacking the Dauntless once he realized the coin was no longer aboard. When…  **_if_ ** he finds us, I plan to send you down into the hatch to hide while I tell Euron about Gendry. He’ll take me aboard the Song and we’ll track down the Interceptor and go back to Isla de la Muerta, where I’ll find a way to get Bootstrap to break the curse so we can take Euron and his crew unawares.”

“But won’t Euron just kill everyone aboard the Interceptor except for Gendry?” Sansa asked tentatively.

“I’ll find a way to ensure that won’t happen,” Petyr assured her. “The crew will likely hand over Gendry rather than fight, and I’ll convince Euron that he’s waited long enough to break the curse, that he doesn’t want to wait any longer. And Bootstrap will do anything he can to follow us, so he can save his son and break the curse.”

Petyr seemed so confident that everything would work out, but Sansa wasn’t so sure. Still, she didn’t exactly have any better ideas for how to handle Euron, except for maybe tossing the coin away but unless they rowed a good distance away from the island to do it, they’d still be found.

“And afterwards, you’d come back for me, right?” She hated the idea of being parted from Petyr, but she knew it would be best for her not to be taken again by Euron. Unfortunately, she no longer had the protection Gendry’s last name had afforded.

“Death itself couldn’t keep me away,” he promised. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3333333


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Petyr receive visitors on Rumrunner’s Island.

Sansa looped her arms around Petyr’s neck, nuzzling her nose against his. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” she whispered. “You never know. Maybe the rumrunners will find us before Euron does. Or maybe we will live out our lives, here on this island, and never be found.”

“Is that what you want?” he asked, brushing his lips against hers.

“What I want is to be with you,” she told him. “The details don’t matter, so long as we are together. Always.”

He kissed her then, his mouth hot and hard against hers, and she felt herself growing pliant in his arms, lips parting as her tongue darted out to taste his. Her fingers tightened in his hair, fisting in his shirt, and her blood began to sing in her veins, her pulse quickening in a rhythm that beat only for him. She felt his hands leave her waist, trailing up her spine to find the laces of her dress, and kissed him harder still, craving more, always more.

And then he abruptly pulled away and Sansa stared at him wide eyed as shouting filled her ears. Arya burst into view, face reddened and screwed up in anger, and she was hurling insults at Petyr as she pelted across the sand towards them. Petyr shot to his feet, darting to where his sword lay nearby, scattering sand, and Sansa struggled to get up as well, watching in horror as Arya skidded to a halt in front of them, breathing hard. Her sister looked furious, and more than ready to attack Petyr, but he held his sword at the ready and, surprisingly, Arya was without her own sword, though Sansa knew her sister never to be without Needle if she could help it.

“Get away from her,” Arya snarled. “Or I’ll kill you!”

“Considering you’re currently unarmed, I rather like my chances. Though you’re welcome to try anyway,” Petyr offered.

Arya scowled and crouched, picking up a handful of sand which she promptly threw at Petyr. Unfortunately, the wind wasn’t in her favor, so most of it blew off harmlessly to the side, the fire crackling as grains of sand rained down upon it. Undeterred, Arya stooped and picked up a nearby rock, but before she could throw it, Sansa quickly intervened.

“Stop!” she implored her sister.

Arya gaped at her. “But — ”

“I set him free,” Sansa told her. “And then decided to go with him. I’m here because I want to be.”

Arya shook her head, her expression one of complete disbelief. “Sansa, he’s a pirate!”

“So?” Sansa shot back. “He’s rescued me twice now! Both times when he had everything to lose by doing so. He might not be a good man, but he’s good to me, and I love him. Very much.”

“You don’t even know him!” 

“I know him better than you do,” Sansa insisted.

“How?” Arya demanded. “You’ve spent even less time with him than I have.”

Sansa was very aware that more people were surrounding them, people she didn’t know, save for Gendry, who had stopped just behind Arya. But Petyr seemed unconcerned, so she didn’t spare any thought for worry that they were in any danger. She sighed. “I just know, alright? Trust me.”

“Sansa, you can’t —” Arya began, but one of the older men spoke, cutting Arya off.

“We need to get back to the ship,” he grunted. “Euron might’ve discovered you were missing by now, and even after he’s spent the whole night murdering part of the Royal Navy, I don’t like our chances if he spots the Interceptor.”

“Good thinking.” Petyr sheathed his sword and set about gathering up their meager belongings.

Arya looked ready to argue, but Gendry pulled her aside and whispered in her ear. Sansa watched as her sister’s shoulders slumped in resignation, and then Arya glared daggers at Petyr, passing over Sansa completely, before following Gendry out of sight. 

“Think the rumrunners would mind if we took a couple of casks?” asked a man who was even shorter than Arya, by at least a head. 

“They probably won’t even notice,” said a woman with short, curly, dark hair. “They trade in rum. They’re drunk more often than not.”

“So am I, and I still remember a great deal,” said the short man. 

“Then you’re not drinking enough,” said a blonde man, hefting up one of the casks of rum.

“Right you are,” the short man chortled.

“Take no more than three,” Petyr advised them. “And no drinking yet. Euron will be on our tail soon enough.”

An older man with an eyepatch frowned. “There something you’re not telling us?”

Petyr reached into his coat and retrieved the coin, holding it up for everyone to see. Sansa watched as the expressions of every man and woman sobered, and then as everyone hastened to grab what they needed before making the trek back to the ship. She had nothing to carry, having only come with the clothes upon her back, so she walked beside Petyr, emptied handed but for his hand in hers. Soon they were back on the Interceptor, a ship Sansa had only briefly been aboard before her father had taken her to the Dauntless. This ship was smaller than the Dauntless, but far more equipped for speed, a fact which she was grateful for.

She wasn’t certain what Petyr planned to do now that they’d been rescued by a friendly party rather than a hostile one, but she was happy that, should they wish to run, they were in the perfect ship to do so. Though she had never paid much attention to the Royal Navy and the ships they kept, the Interceptor had been praised enough for its speed that even she hadn’t failed to notice it. 

Sansa stayed by Petyr’s side as he directed the crew for a bit, loving watching the way he easily took charge, then followed him into the privacy of the captain’s quarters. Once there, she slipped into his embrace, her cheek pressed up against his, eyes fluttering closed. They were far from out of danger, and yet she couldn’t help but feel some semblance of relief. Once again she had feared the worst only for fate to surprise her and gift her with another way, one far kinder.

Her mouth inevitably found his, and they kissed for awhile, simply enjoying one another and the brief respite kissing gave them from other, more pressing matters. They broke apart only when a knock sounded at the door, and Petyr bade whomever it was entrance. To Sansa’s surprise, it was Arya, who still looked a bit angry, but far more receptive to whatever Sansa might have to say. Sensing correctly that they needed time alone to talk, Petyr excused himself to check on the crew, and Sansa found herself sitting with her sister, at a loss for what to say, for how to begin.

Eventually she thought it best to start with the ‘thank you’ that was far too late in its expression but hopefully would still be well received. “I cannot tell you how much it means to me, that you came for me,” she began. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to tell you, but I really am so grateful for everything you’ve done. Without you, I wouldn’t have left that cave alive. Thank you, for coming for me, for risking everything in the hopes that you could rescue me. Not every girl is blessed with a sister who would join with pirates and sail out into the unknown, but thankfully I am.”

Any visible rancor still lingering in Arya’s expression quickly melted away. “Of course I came for you. You’re my sister. My family. And I was so worried that I would never see you again.” She dropped her gaze, staring down at the floor, her toes scuffing against the wooden planks. “Father wouldn’t have found you. I talked with Baelish the morning after they took you. Snuck out to see him, with Gendry. Baelish told me who had taken you, and where, and I knew Father would never take the advice of a pirate, so I did what I had to do. We made a bargain, and Gendry and I freed Baelish in exchange for his help.”

“And you stole the Interceptor?” Sansa asked, curious as to how Petyr had managed that.

Arya nodded. “Father tried to stop us, but Baelish had it all figured out.” She blew out a breath of air. “He’s clever, I’ll give him that. We went to Tortuga, found a crew, then sailed for Isla de la Muerta.”

“And I’m so glad you did,” said Sansa, smiling warmly at her sister as she got to her feet, crossing the short distance between them so she could give Arya a hug. 

Arya hugged her back, her grip fierce, releasing Sansa with some reluctance when she finally stepped back. As Sansa returned to her seat, Arya’s gaze turned wary. “Why did you leave with him? What makes you think you know him, just in the space of a few hours?”

Sansa wrung her hands, uncertain how best to express what she had felt in that moment. What she was feeling even now, though Petyr wasn’t currently by her side. “I love him,” she said finally, shrugging as a sheepish smile tipped her lips.

“But you barely know him. How could you possibly know if you love him?” Arya pressed.

Sansa shrugged again. “Sometimes you just know. I can’t explain it. I set him free, and he kissed me, and I knew that I was his, and he was mine. So I left with him. And I’d do it again.” 

Arya still looked skeptical and Sansa laughed. “You’ll understand, someday. When you’re ready to fall in love. It will just happen. One day the world seems like it’s always been, and the next everything has changed. You look at someone, and  **_they_ ** are your whole world. Even if you’ve known them for but a moment. Even if one day that person is only part of your world and the next they encompass all of it.”

Sansa watched as recognition bloomed in her sister’s eyes, and straightened in her chair, her own eyes lighting up. “No!” she squealed. “Really?! Who is it? Is it Gendry?”

Arya turned red and quickly looked away. “What? No! I just understand, that’s all,” she muttered. “I mean, it makes sense, what you’re saying.”

It was Sansa’s turn to look skeptical, but Arya refused to look at her so Sansa figured it might be best to drop the subject. For now, anyway. Although she couldn’t help saying, “You know, as lucky as I am to have you as a sister, you’re lucky to have such a great friend in Gendry. He’s risked a lot, by coming with you.”

“Don’t I know it,” Arya said soberly. “Father locked him up with the rest of the pirates.”

“I was there,” Sansa reminded her gently. 

“I don’t know why though,” Arya said, sounding frustrated. “Gendry only came to help me. It wasn’t his idea to go to Baelish.”

Sansa sighed. “I think maybe that Father has been very stressed these past few days, what with losing both of his daughters. I imagine he just needed someone to blame.”

“He had Baelish. I should think he would have suited well enough,” Arya grumbled.

Sansa laughed. “And he probably might have, had we successfully returned to Port Royal.” Then she remembered that her father might very well be dead, joining the corpses of so many lost at sea. “I just hope he’s alright. I freed Petyr in part because I had hoped that the coin would draw Euron away from the Dauntless. But perhaps Euron didn’t notice the coin was missing until too late….”

Seeing Arya’s confusion, Sansa quickly realized that Arya must not know about the curse or the pirate medallion, so she did her best to fill her sister in, explaining everything as succinctly as she could. How Euron had come to Port Royal searching for the coin, how Sansa had learned about the curse, how they’d tried to use her blood to break the curse, only to fail, since it wasn’t her blood that they needed. She told Arya too about Petyr’s connection to it all, and about Gendry, and how he fit into everything. When she was finished, Arya looked thoroughly gobsmacked, and more than a little angry.

“So he was going to use Gendry as bait?” she demanded.

“He didn’t have a choice,” Sansa said defensively. “Euron and his crew are immortal until the curse is broken. You and everyone else would have been slaughtered otherwise.”

Arya’s anger deflated somewhat, but she still seemed ready to find Petyr and run him through with Needle. “Still, he could have told us what he was planning,” she insisted, unwilling to let her rage deplete completely.

“And would you have believed him? Or agreed to it?” Sansa asked.

“Probably not,” Arya admitted, then grumbled, “Still doesn’t make it right.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. But he did what he thought he had to, in order to rescue me.” Sansa paused. “And retake his ship. He couldn’t have known he’d be able to get me out without Euron noticing.”

Arya frowned. “That’s right. Why didn’t he follow through with his plan? I mean, if he wanted to retake his ship, he should have stuck with it.”

Sansa smiled. “Because of me, of course. He didn’t anticipate falling in love. When he saw a chance to rescue me without putting me in further danger, he took it.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Then he’s just as insane as you are. Clearly you’re made for one another.”

“So you approve then?” Sansa asked, holding back a laugh as her sister’s expression changed.

“Gods no, but you do you, I guess. I mean, I don’t like it, or understand it, and if Father is still alive he won’t either, but I have a feeling you’ll do what you want. And I’d rather not lose my sister over who she’s chosen to fall in love with. Even if it means accepting that you’re in love with  **_him_ ** ,” Arya told her.

Sansa got up and pulled her sister in for another hug. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <33333333


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr talks with Davos about what to do if Euron finds them. Gendry learns more about his past, and is faced with a choice.

**_Petyr:_ **

Petyr was only too happy to leave Sansa alone with her sister; it was clear the two had much to talk about, and Arya looked ready to gut him at any second. He didn’t relish his chances against the girl, not with how her face twisted with barely concealed rage every time she laid eyes upon him. Sansa had already spared him once, and would likely do so again, but Arya’s rancor had likely risen to the level of unpredictability where he was concerned, and he thought it better not to risk it.

And anyway, he had business to attend to. Though he was torn as to which path he should take, he thought it better to err on the side of caution and make preparations for the path that required his urgent attention. It was highly likely that if he didn’t decide soon, the choice would be made for him.

He’d set out on this journey with hopes of reclaiming the Mockingbird’s Song, the ship he’d done so much to obtain. Then, rescuing Sansa had just been a happy byproduct. And yet now he had the girl, and she was truly his, somehow, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he should give up the Song and years of plotting his revenge. If he persisted, he might risk losing Sansa, to death or greed, or even to her father, if indeed Commodore Stark was still alive. Even if he succeeded in killing Euron and retaking the Song, if he lost Sansa the victory couldn’t be referred to as such.

Not anymore.

If need be, he’d give up the Song, Petyr decided, **_and_ ** all hopes of revenge. Neither were worth losing Sansa. Perhaps he was a fool (oh, he certainly was), but given the choice, he’d always choose her.

Still, just in case fate chose for him, Petyr thought it best to have a talk with Davos. If Euron caught up with them before he could find a safe place to destroy the coin, then they needed a contingency plan (Petyr liked the idea of letting Euron and the rest of his former crew stew in purgatory for all of eternity, even if it meant they’d continue to terrorize the good folk along England’s coast. Of course, he and Sansa would have to go into hiding, but they’d have to do that even if Petyr didn’t ruin Euron’s chances of breaking the curse).

He found Davos easily enough, pulling the older man to the side to have a few words, unheard by the rest of the crew. Petyr made sure that Gendry especially was out of earshot, then lowered his voice, speaking quickly. “Have you told the boy yet?”

Davos shook his head. “Couldn’t do it. Not then. It’s hardly the right time to reveal something like that, when you’re planning to betray them soon after.”

Petyr winced. He actually felt slightly bad about that. “He’s angry then? Even without knowing who you are?”

“‘Course. As he should be.” Davos sighed. “I expect you want me to tell him now though, eh?”

“It would be prudent for him to know. We’ve been fortunate thus far. I don’t expect that to last. If Euron does find us, we need to be ready.”

Davos nodded and sighed again. “Wish I’d done it earlier. Perhaps then I might’ve had a few seconds where he might’ve taken the news with joy rather than despair. Or hatred.”

“He’ll understand soon enough why you’ve kept him in the dark. In time, he might forgive you.” Petyr didn’t exactly believe what he was saying, but he needed Davos on his side. They didn’t have a chance of escaping Euron’s wrath otherwise.

“I’m afraid I’ve too many sins for him to forgive.” Davos sighed a third time. “I’ll talk to the boy, but I’ll not force him to go along with whatever plan you’ve got in that head of yours. He can make up his own mind this time.”

Petyr had figured this, but he wasn’t worried. The boy was in love with Arya, and, if need be, Gendry would do what he could to spare her. Even if it meant sacrificing himself. Funny, how he and Gendry had that much in common, at least. He filled Davos in on his plan, one that not only hopefully spelled survival for them all, but involved retaking the Song, killing Euron, and ending the curse in one fell swoop.

Davos listened and nodded his assent when Petyr had finished. “I’ll talk to him,” he promised.

The older man made to leave, but Petyr stopped him with a hand to the arm, pressing the pirate medallion into Davos’ open palm. “Remember, it’s best that you don’t tell him everything. Not yet. He has to think that his blood will break the curse. I’m not confident enough in his acting skills to trust both that matter to him and that of keeping your identity a secret from Euron. For this to work, it’s crucial that no one but you or I know that Gendry is not yours by blood.”

 

* * *

 

**_Gendry:_ **

Gendry was exhausted, physically and otherwise. Muscles ached that he hadn’t even known he’d had, which was certainly saying something considering he worked in a blacksmith’s apprenticeship and spent many of his spare moments sparring with Arya or alone. He was tired of the sea, of the way the boat constantly rocked beneath his feet, of the cries of gulls and the fierce winds and the sunlight beating down upon his neck.

It made him crave the dark heat of his forge, the clang of steel upon steel, the hiss of heated metal, the crackle of the fire. The ash that worked its way beneath his fingernails and soiled his clothes and skin.

He was tired too of the way he never seemed to regain his footing in the chaos that currently surrounded him and Arya, and Sansa too. Every moment seemed to reveal new information, most of it entirely unwelcome. He felt like he could never catch up, that normalcy would never find its way into his life again.

Strangely, he longed for the comfortable monotony of his days in Port Royal, where he’d felt stifled and frustrated, it was true, but at least he’d understood what was going on most of the time. Now he was lucky if he could get through even a minute without feeling lost.

Arya’s presence had helped keep him sane (at least since they’d made up in the brig last night), but she was gone just then, in the captain’s quarters talking with her sister. There were enough people aboard that his help wasn’t especially required to keep the Interceptor sailing on its course, so he was left alone, brooding in the crew’s quarters below deck. At least in the belly of the ship he could better pretend he wasn’t outside and at sea, without the glint of the sun on countless waves. And it was quieter below as well. Everyone else was on deck.

Gendry lay in his hammock, the rope cradling his body as it gently swayed to and fro, one arm flung over his eyes, which were squinched shut as he tried to force himself not to think, to get some sleep. He was so tired. But his mind had trapped him, keeping him awake with an incessant press of worry and doubt, fear sprinkled through the strands like soot, clinging to each follicle, always more to be found no matter how many times he tried to scrub them clean. Something told him that this adventure was far from over, that perhaps the worst was yet to come.

Footsteps reached his ears after an indeterminate amount of time, but Gendry didn’t stir, assuming that whoever it was hadn’t come for him. Boots knocked against the wood, sounding closer than he would have expected, before pausing, soles scraping against the roughened planks as the person shifted their weight. Gendry released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been keeping, then stiffened as someone spoke.

“I know you’ve a right to be angry with me,” Davos began. “And I wouldn’t blame you if you refused to listen to anything I have to say…” the older man trailed off, as if expecting Gendry to rebuke him just then, but Gendry offered no indication that he’d even heard Davos speak. There was an awkward pause, and then Davos continued, his voice rougher than before. “A man never betrays anyone lightly, no matter how it might seem. There’s always a reason, some better than others. Regardless, very few ever excuse the betrayal, and I don’t expect mine to do anything of the sort. And yet I still owe you an explanation.”

Davos hesitated, again waiting for Gendry to lash out at him. Perhaps even hoping for it. Gendry didn’t oblige. He was curious, for one thing. He’d had too much happen and not enough answers as of late. In addition, he was too tired and knew the man too little to expend what energy he had left on tearing Davos a new one. Gendry was angry, of course, but he had no connection to Davos before now. It wasn’t a betrayal that stung too deeply.

The silence stretched uncomfortably long before Davos began to speak again. “There’s much you don’t know, but I hope to remedy that now.” Another pause, and then Davos launched into a tale that sounded unbelievable to Gendry’s ears, one of a curse and undead men, of a quest to return every stolen piece of Aztec gold and repay the blood. “I was one of the crew, albeit unwillingly after Euron mutinied against Captain Baelish. It didn’t feel right, siding with the rest of the crew against him, but I had more than just myself to think of. Captain Baelish was marooned on an island, left to die, and gods help me I wasn’t about to join him, not when I couldn’t bear to risk my son’s life.”

Gendry lifted his arm from across his eyes and carefully sat up, his eyes searching out Davos’ face in the gloom. “You have a son?”

“Aye. I did.” Davos’ expression turned brittle. “It wasn’t long after that that the Song attacked a merchant ship. It was a brutal sea battle, one where it was difficult to distinguish between friend or foe. I tried to protect my son, but he was knocked overboard in the ensuing chaos.” Davos shook his head, his voice turning to a mere croak. “I jumped in after him, but every head I found was that of the dead. Still, I searched, through burning wreckage and bloated corpses, calling for my son as loud as I dared. The Song spied another ship’s approach and fled, and I watched as they found my boy, hauling him to safety. But I could not go to him. My boy was young enough that he hadn’t yet been branded, he could pass for a passenger on the merchant ship that had been destroyed. But I couldn’t hope for rescue without meeting the noose soon after. So I hid, and I prayed that my son would have a better life without me.”

Gendry listened to Davos with an odd sense of growing clarity. He didn’t remember the night he’d been taken in by the Starks in anything more than flashes, all hazy, many born from dreams that blurred the lines between fantasy and reality. But he could feel the salt as it stung his nose and throat, feel the splinters working beneath his skin as he crawled atop a bit of wood, feel his lungs burning as they begged for air. Davos’ story lent familiarity to those flashes, filling in some of the gaps.

“It seems he has,” Davos said quietly. “You’ve grown into a fine young man, Gendry. One any father would be proud of.”

Gendry swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. It all made sense. Davos had mentioned a coin, had said that Sansa had somehow gotten ahold of it. He remembered now, wearing a coin on a chain around his neck. How he’d been so thrilled to have something for his very own. His father had taken the coin, like all of the others, and yet he hadn’t spent it. Instead he’d gifted it to his son. And Gendry had been wearing the coin when the Starks had rescued him. He’d thought he’d lost it, at the time, that it had been lost to the sea. And then the coin had faded from his memory, along with so much else of his past.

Until now.

Davos pulled something from his coat, holding it up for Gendry to see, the coin dangling from its age tarnished chain. Gendry took it, rubbing his thumb across the skull worked into the gold. “What’s my name,” he asked, glancing back up at Davos.

The older man smiled. “The same as it’s always been. It’s mine that’s changed. Euron’s been searching for me, desperate to break the curse. I couldn’t very well hide from him under the name ‘Bootstrap’ Bill Waters.”

Gendry closed his fingers around the coin. “Why didn’t you come for me?”

Davos sighed. “I figured you’d be safest without me, that you might have found a life better than what I could have given you. You were better off.”

Gendry wasn’t sure if he wanted to argue against that assumption or not. Had Davos (or Bill) come for him, he might had had an entirely different life. One without the Starks. Without Arya….

His fingers tightened around the coin. “And what about earlier? When you….”

“I didn’t like doing it. But the Captain had a plan, and I couldn’t see another way around it,” Davos said, then explained how Baelish had hoped to trick Euron by luring him to the boat to get Gendry, while Davos himself broke the curse.

Gendry still rankled at the betrayal when Davos had finished, but he couldn’t deny the logic. Though, Davos might not have had to betray him at all had he simply told him the truth before. Gendry couldn’t help pointing that out as he thought of it, and Davos looked pained.

“I wasn’t certain how you would take it, and we had very little time,” Davos apologized. “I didn’t even know the particulars of the plan until we were nearly at Isla de la Muerta.” He paused, then added, “The Captain probably waited so long so I had little other choice. He’s a smart man, that one. Didn’t want to stake everything on your cooperation.”

“A scheming bastard, more like,” Gendry grumbled.

Davos chuckled. “That too.”

Gendry dropped his gaze back to the coin, which he’d begun turning about in his fingers. He had a sinking feeling that what he’d just heard wasn’t the end of it. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because we need to be prepared. In case Euron catches up with us.” The reluctance in Davos’ voice was palpable. Gendry heard it, and yet it didn’t do much to quell the anger that suddenly flooded through him with a vengeance.

He struggled to his feet, glaring at Davos when he’d finally straightened. “You want to use me as bait again,” he accused.

Davos didn’t deny it. Gendry could see the pain in the older man’s one good eye, but it just made him angrier still  He dropped his gaze and stared at the ground instead, his fist clenching around the coin as he seethed.

“It’s not about what I want,” Davos said finally. “It’s about what might be necessary. If Euron finds us, then we have little other hope but to follow Captain Baelish’s plan. Else we’ll all meet watery graves, or worse. It’s the best chance we have of survival.”

Gendry thought this over, his grip slowly loosening on the coin. He could still feel the imprint of the coin’s face in his palm, the skin tender. “Why don’t we just cast the coin into the ocean, if that’s all that’s drawing Euron to us,” he suggested.

“It’s an option,” Davos admitted, “but I don’t think the Captain has decided on a course of action yet. And Euron may still meet with us, even without the coin, and then we’d be without leverage. It’s best we have a plan, in any case. Our odds without it are scant, at best.”

Gendry remembered Commodore Stark, and all of the men he’d brought with him, how every one of them was likely dead and gone, resting at the bottom of the sea with the wreckage of the Dauntless, or floating atop the waves as bloated corpses. Euron and his crew had likely spared them no mercy. Visions of the same befalling the Interceptor flashed before Gendry’s mind, of undead men slaughtering everyone on board, of Arya sinking beneath the waves, eyes open and unseeing.

He couldn’t bear for such a fate to become reality.

“Tell me the plan,” he said, his mind made up.

He would do what he had to, to keep Arya safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <33333


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Petyr make a decision about their future and inform the crew of the Interceptor.

**_Sansa:_ **

A soft knock against the door halted Sansa mid sentence, and she glanced up to see Petyr re-entering the room. Arya immediately scowled, crossing her arms, hands curled into fists, as if she wanted nothing more than to leap at Petyr and tear him limb from limb, and was physically restraining herself from doing so. Petyr appeared not to notice. he went straight to where Sansa was sitting, one hand gently squeezing her shoulder as he bent to kiss the top of her head.

Arya huffed, and squirmed in her chair. Sansa tried not to laugh, though she couldn’t keep the smile from forming on her lips.

“Sorry to interrupt, sweetling, but we do have matters of some urgency to discuss,” Petyr said.

Arya huffed again and Sansa turned back to her sister, offering her an apologetic smile. “We can talk more later,” she promised.

“Fine.” Arya got to her feet and started to leave, before pausing and whirling around to face Petyr. “You hurt her, and I swear it, I’ll gut you and remove every bone in your body, you spineless worm.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Were that the case, I should think deboning wholly unnecessary.”

Arya’s scowl grew more pronounced. “Whatever,” she snapped. “You get my point.”

“Oh I do,” Petyr assured her. “Though you seem to still be lacking a sword. You might want to remedy that before making any more threats.”

“I’ll have Needle back soon enough,” Arya spat.

“Needle?” Petyr looked intrigued.

“Her sword,” Sansa told him. “Our governess always said she was hopeless at needlework, but she’s always excelled at swordplay, so when Gendry forged a sword for her, he christened it Needle.”

“And my Needlework’s far deadlier than my sister’s,” Arya warned Petyr, before she stalked out of the room.

Once her sister was out of sight, Sansa grabbed ahold of Petyr’s hand, tugging him down to sit next to her. He threaded his fingers with hers, stealing another kiss before pulling away, his expression serious.

“It seems we have a choice to make, my love.”

Sansa tilted her head to the side, her lips curving into a soft smile. “Oh?”

He nodded. “I leave our fate in your hands. We can either dispose of the coin and attempt to flee, spending the rest of our lives in hiding from Euron, or we can try to break the curse, at the very least, and leave my former crew as vulnerable as any mortal man.”

“And what of your ship? After all these years, you’d give up the Song?” she asked, uncertain.

“Yes.” His answer was immediate, without hesitation. She could tell he meant it.

Still, she didn’t want to ask that of him. He’d wanted to reclaim his ship, to exact revenge on Euron and the rest of his mutinous crew, for years now, of whose exact number she wasn’t certain. She knew both quests had consumed him until quite recently, that he’d wanted nothing else for so long. He wanted vengeance, and he wanted his ship, and she loved him enough to give both to him, even if he no longer wanted both above all else. 

Petyr must have read her train of thought from the look in her eyes, and he shook his head. “I loved the Song, but she is nothing compared to you. Given the choice, I’d always choose you.”

Sansa smiled. “I know.” She kissed him softly, then spoke, her lips brushing against his with each word. “But why not have both, if you can manage it?”

He chuckled. “And you’d want that? To spend your life at sea, among pirates? It’s a far cry from the life you’ve lived thus far, sweetling.”

She considered this. Petyr was right, of course. It would be much different than what she’d been used to in Port Royal. Much more dangerous. And far less luxurious (although she sensed that Petyr would do his best to provide a finer life for them than most pirates experienced). But she’d bored of her life in Port Royal long ago. There wasn’t any excitement there. And she certainly didn’t want to marry Joffrey Baratheon.

But was a life at sea what she truly wanted? She’d never before had any inclination for one. In fact, she’d never much liked the trips she used to regularly take aboard ships under her father’s command in the Royal Navy. They lacked in the comforts she so loved, of access to varied foods, proper hygiene, and so much else. And she’d been better housed than most aboard those ships. 

And then there was the fact that she’d never even dreamed that she’d want to be around pirates (save for getting rescued from them in the idle fantasies she sometimes had), let alone live amongst them. But suddenly, strangely, she felt that a life of piracy might suit her, as long as it was lived by Petyr’s side.

Yes, she decided. She did want it. Very much.

Sansa nodded. “I would,” she said. “So long as I’m with you.”

He kissed her then, and she lost herself for a few moments, only breaking away when a thought snagged in her mind. “My father,” she breathed. “Do you think there’s any hope? Or is the fact that Euron hasn’t yet found us answer enough.”

“I wish I knew,” Petyr said, his expression full of regret. Not for her father, she knew, but for the pain she would no doubt feel once his death was confirmed, if indeed it would be. But she held out hope, and would continue to do so until she had reason not to. 

She bit her lip. “Can we search for him?” she asked tentatively. “After this is all done? Help him, if need be?”

It was a testament to how much he loved her that he agreed to, even when it certainly would prove difficult for him if they did meet again with Commodore Stark. Satisfied, Sansa lost herself to another round of kisses, before they broke apart and worked out their plans to retake the Mockingbird’s Song and erase the threat from Euron’s crew. Petyr was very thorough as he laid out every detail for her, anticipating every possible instance they might encounter and planning accordingly. When they were certain that they wouldn’t be caught unawares, they wasted no time in gathering the crew and explaining what needed to be done.

It turned out that Petyr had already instructed the crew to head back to Isla de la Muerta, knowing that Euron would track them due to the coin, and hoping that at the very least they could get to the island and break the curse before Euron found them. Sansa wasn’t bothered that he’d chosen this course without asking her; it was the sensible thing to do, and she knew he would have discarded the coin and fled had she chosen that path. 

The crew seemed to take everything in stride, though as Petyr detailed what lay ahead for them, and the plans he’d come up with that hopefully covered all contingencies, he still had to field the occasional question. 

“And what if Euron doesn’t take your word for it? That someone with Bootstrap’s blood is among the crew? What if he just slaughters us all and takes the medallion?” asked Tyrion.

“I’ll not lie, there is a small chance of that,” Petyr admitted. “But I think he’s desperate enough to break the curse that he’ll take me at my word, at least enough to wait until we make it back to Isla de la Muerta. But hopefully it won’t come to that. We aren’t more than a few hours away from the island. There’s hope that we can make it there and send Davos ashore before Euron happens upon us.”

“And I’m still to keep the Interceptor, if you reclaim the Song?” Ros asked, arms folded, brows arched.

“Yes,” Petyr confirmed. 

“What of the treasure?” asked Oberyn. “Are we divvying it up any particular way or is it more take what ye please?”

Everyone gathered perked up, their love of riches overtaking their concern for their wellbeing for the moment. 

Petyr shrugged. “I suppose we can split it evenly. The Song is mine, and the Interceptor is already promised to Ros, but whatever else we find can be divided accordingly.” He paused. “Save for the chest of Aztec gold, of course. I don’t know about you, but I think it’s best that remains untouched. No amount of gold is worth such a curse.”

There was a murmur of agreement and everyone nodded, clearly pleased with the decision.

Petyr waited for a moment, anticipating more questions or objections. When none came forth, he continued, his expression turning serious as he spoke. “Remember, it is imperative that no one reveals either Bootstrap’s or Gendry’s identities. Not even when faced with death. Once Euron knows whom he can use to break the curse, he’ll immediately dispose of the rest. Any promises he makes to spare the lives of those who come forward shouldn’t be trusted. He is a dangerous man and prone to unpredictability. Stay quiet and speak only when addressed, saying as little as possible.”

He paused, then continued, “There are some of us in greater danger than the rest. Sansa and myself are of course among them, as Euron knows neither of us can break the curse for him. As for the rest of you, it is my hope that remaining vague about which relation of Bootstrap’s I’ve found will spare you. If Euron doesn’t know whether the relation is a sibling, offspring or long lost cousin, it will broaden the options. Let me do the talking, and, if possible, only repeat what I’ve said when questioned. If something goes wrong and Euron kills me, follow Sansa’s lead. She knows what to do.”

He paused again. “Finally, when the time comes, remember that Euron is mine alone to kill. Now make haste. We’ve not got time on our sides. If ever there was a time to give it your all, it’s now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the longer wait between updates, haven't had much time for fanfic lately. Hope you liked the new chapter!


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Gendry talk about their future, and Arya tries to figure out what to do. The Interceptor sails to Isla de la Muerta. Sansa and Petyr, and the rest of the crew, prepare for battle.

**_Arya:_ **

Every man and woman aboard the Interceptor was hard at work, manning the sails, minding the helm, building up a sweat with the oars below deck, even casting overboard some of their cargo to lighten the load and help make it easier for the wind to guide them. All ensuring their swift course to Isla de la Muerta. The most seasoned sailors were up in the rigging, scrabbling along the ropes, adjusting the sails as necessary. Even Captain Baelish was with them, and Arya was surprised to see how agile he was, how comfortable he seemed, up there with the wind knocking him about. 

As for Sansa, Baelish had put her in charge at the helm, handing her a compass that, when Arya got a peek at it, strangely didn’t point north. Tyrion and Baelish stopped by the helm regularly to check on Sansa’s progress or provide assistance, but Arya noticed that Sansa seemed very confident at the helm. Like she’d been sailing her whole life (which, alright, she had, but only as a passenger until now). It was funny, but suddenly Arya could see a different side of her sister, one apart from the proper lady she’d always known Sansa to be. And, despite the danger they were sailing into, Sansa actually looked happy, her smile growing wider anytime Baelish happened to be near.

Meanwhile, Arya and Gendry had been relegated to the oars (Arya had initially been told to help relieve the ship of some of its lesser needed cargo but she’d insisted that she could row just as well as Gendry. and Baelish eventually relented, letting her take over for Olyvar), along with Lothor, Syrio, Oberyn and Davos (or Bootstrap Bill, as he’d once been called). Arya was seated next to Gendry at one oar, Lothor beside them (Syrio, Oberyn and Davos manning the oar on the opposite side), and though the work was hard and the others kept up a steady chant to keep their movements in sync, she couldn’t help but ask the questions that were threatening to sear her tongue, so great was their intensity to be answered. They hadn’t yet had a real chance to talk since before they’d found Sansa and left Rumrunner’s Island. And so much had happened in the space of so little time. 

“So I guess you’re a pirate after all, huh?” she joked, hoping to lighten the mood a bit, what with the gravity of the topic of conversation.

Gendry snorted. “Guess so. At least all that training with you in swordplay’ll come in handy.”

The smile swept off of Arya’s face. “So you’re staying then? With the pirates?”

She saw Gendry’s shoulders tense further as he worked. Her heart sank further as the silence between them dragged on. “Maybe,” he said finally. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“I suppose you  **_would_ ** want to be with your father,” she said. Her voice sounded small, defeated, and she hated it.

Gendry sighed. “I’m not so sure I’d have a life to come back to even if I chose to return to Port Royal. Your father planned to try me as a pirate,” he reminded her.

Arya felt her stomach clench. Her father. Who might be dead, rotting beneath the waves even now. “I doubt that matters anymore,” she said sadly.

“Don’t say that,” said Gendry. “He might be out there still, trying to find you. The Dauntless is a big ship, and the Interceptor is the fastest in the Royal Navy. It would make sense that he hasn’t caught up with us yet.”

Arya let out a shaky laugh. “So you want him to come and try you for piracy? Send you to the noose?”

“I want you to have your father back, safe and sound. I know what it’s like, not having your father around. I don’t want that for you,” Gendry said quietly.

Arya gulped. “I don’t want that for you either,” she said. “Even if I’d miss you. I think you’ve been given a chance to be with your family, and you should take it.” She hated herself for saying it, but she knew she’d also hate herself if she didn’t. She wanted Gendry to be happy.

“You’re my family too,” Gendry told her. He paused. “You could always stay with me. If you wanted.” Another pause. “Of course then you’d be separated from your father. And Sansa.”

“I don’t think Sansa’s planning on going back to Port Royal,” Arya said. “Even if we find Father.”

“She’s in love with Baelish then?” he asked.

“Apparently.” She sighed. 

What was she to do? If her father was indeed lost, then she knew the answer. She wouldn’t go back to Port Royal. Not when neither Gendry nor Sansa planned to return. There wouldn’t be anything left for her there if Commodore Stark was dead (oh gods, she hoped he wasn’t). Though she wasn’t sure if she’d join Sansa or Gendry, if the two went on separate paths. In her heart, though she’d miss her sister desperately, she wanted to follow Gendry wherever he went, even if her father was still alive. More and more she felt this pull from him, a desire to be close to him, to talk to him, to be with him. It scared her, and yet it thrilled her too.

The feeling she got when she was around him, it was wild and untameable, and better than what she felt whenever she was training with Needle. It made her blood sing, her thoughts rush, her heart pound. Like she’d spent hours building up a sweat, all crammed into an instance, zero to everything just from seeing his face, hearing his voice.

Was this what Sansa felt, when she looked at Baelish? And if Sansa professed to love Baelish, did that mean that Arya felt the same about Gendry? Sansa seemed to know with such certainty what she felt, and yet Arya couldn’t pin it down, couldn’t put it into words. Couldn’t define it. Perhaps it was her fear holding her back. What she was feeling was so new, so wholly foreign to her, that she couldn’t help but recoil from it. She’d never been one of those girls who pined for boys. Sansa had. Many a time. Her sister was comfortable with romance. Arya was not.

She couldn’t successfully bridge the gap. Couldn’t reconcile love and the girl she knew herself to be. Did falling in love mean she had to change who she was? That she’d have to act like other girls acted when in love, when being courted. Or could she be in love and still retain what she knew of herself? Ellaria and Oberyn were clearly in love, even as they flirted with everyone in sight and took on other lovers. And yet Ellaria was still her own person, quick of wit and as capable as any man aboard a ship. And Shae and Tyrion were in love as well, Shae more feminine than Ellaria but no less fierce. 

Perhaps Arya had little to fear after all. Perhaps she and love could coexist, just as they each were.

Still, she couldn’t help but be scared. Even without sacrificing herself to become some lovelorn romantic, being in love (if indeed she was) was far more difficult than she would have expected. Suddenly she was all too aware of everything she did around Gendry. Of what he must be thinking of her as she did this or said that. Where before she’d felt so comfortable around him, now her mind was in a constant fit, a battle raging, the outcome unpredictable. She hoped that in time the battle would subside, even if her feelings didn’t. It would get easier, the longer they spent with each other, even with a change in their relationship, right?

Right?

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa:_ **

Sansa was at the helm of the Interceptor, Petyr's compass in her hand (which kept stubbornly pointing to him instead of Isla de la Muerta, like she needed it to). The wind was playing with her hair, the sun warming her skin, and she knew she'd made the right decision. She would be happy, living at sea with Petyr, the crash of the waves lulling her to sleep, the bright sun glittering as it touched the swells of water, the thrill of adventure always in her veins.

Though she made sure to keep her main focus on the task at hand (it was imperative that they make it to Isla de la Muerta as quickly as they could), she couldn't help but scour their surroundings for any hints of another ship. She was, of course, searching to make sure Euron wasn't on their tail, but a bigger part of her was desperately seeking evidence of the Dauntless. Evidence that her father was still alive and well. Everyone else was also keeping their eye out as they worked, though she doubted any of them wanted to find the Dauntless like she did (except Arya or Gendry, but they were below deck, and therefore couldn't search). Finding the Dauntless with survivors would only create problems for the pirates, and for their situation as a whole. They couldn't afford any delays.

Still, she searched. And she hoped. 

Hours passed, and the sun began to dip towards the horizon, the sky streaked with hues of pink and orange as daylight faded. It was with great relief that they finally sighted the island, Euron and his crew still only a memory, and everyone aboard the Interceptor increased their efforts at the visible of evidence that the success they yearned for was within their grasp. There was an excitement in the air, threaded through with a thick ribbon of fear that wove about them, the noose tightening or loosening at varying intervals, keeping them on their toes. Sansa could see how the fear strangled each of them as she kept their course steady, noticing the tense set of their shoulders, the rigid lines of their mouths, the way the look in their eyes shifted from unmistakable hunger (for the treasure? For bloodshed? For both?) to that of men she’d seen heading to the gallows. Resignation. Fear. Bitterness.

Petyr stopped by the helm to speak with her or offer reassurance as often as he could, his own fear written in his eyes, one that frightened her. It made her uncomfortably aware that soon either of them could die (perhaps even both of them), that these last hours might have been their last together. She tried not to think of that.

The Dauntless had not been spotted, much to her disappointment, but Euron and the Mockingbird’s Song hadn’t been either, much to her relief. As they neared Isla de la Muerta, those below stopped rowing and came out into the cool night air for a much needed rest. Those tending to the sails slackened as well, as speed would not be to their advantage any longer; the island was surrounded by sharp rocks and more than a few shipwrecks, the air hung with a thick mist, all of which necessitated careful navigation. Lothor Brune took over for Sansa at the helm, and everyone else either stopped to catch their breath or began preparations for battle (just in case Euron was lurking about the other side of the island, waiting for them) and for Davos’ (Bootstrap Bill’s) trip ashore.

Sansa disappeared with Petyr into the Captain’s quarters, watching as he checked his pistol and added several daggers to his person (he’d already had the one, as well as a sword belted at his hip, but clearly he wanted more). The last dagger he pressed into her hand, and she took it from him gingerly, unused to handling weapons. 

“Just in case,” he told her. “I’ll do what I can to make sure you don’t have to use it, but if you need to, don’t hesitate.”

She smiled, turning the dagger in her hands, admiring the gold inlaid handle, the weight in her palm. “I won’t.” She paused, then added, “I’ve already stabbed Euron once. I’m certain it shouldn’t be too hard to do it again.”

Petyr raised his eyebrows. “You did?”

Sansa nodded and told him about dining with Euron on the night she’d first learned of the curse. “Of course, it didn’t do any good then, but hopefully it will next time,” she finished. 

“Should everything go to plan, it will,” he assured her.

“I hope so,” she said, setting the dagger aside and slipping into his arms. 

He tucked her hair behind her ear. “Soon the Song will be ours, and Euron will be but a distant memory. You’ll see.”

Sansa wanted to believe him. She wanted that happy ending. And if one wouldn’t come willingly for them, she’d make it so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <333


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Interceptor reaches Isla de la Muerta. Plans are set into motion.

**_Petyr:_ **

Once the Interceptor was close enough to Isla de la Muerta, Petyr had the crew set down the anchor, and Davos climbed into one of the lifeboats with the pirate medallion tucked safely in his breast pocket and a grim set to his mouth. Petyr wished the older man good luck and sent him on his way, hoping for his swift and safe return. So much depended on Davos’ success. Petyr only hoped there wasn’t an ambush waiting for the older pirate. He doubted it. But Euron was nothing if not unpredictable.

It was only after Davos had rowed out of sight that Olyvar, perched up in the crow’s nest, called out a warning. Petyr quickly turned, squinting through the mist in the direction Olyvar was indicating. Sansa let out a soft cry of alarm.

It was the Song.

Everyone aboard looked to him, waiting for orders. Petyr quickly weighed his options. They could attempt to flee, but such an attempt wasn’t like to be met with success. And the crew surely would mislike abandoning Davos (Gendry, Arya, and Sansa in particular). But he wasn’t about to engage in a sea battle. Not when he was certain that Davos hadn’t yet broken the curse. 

And not when battle meant damaging his beloved Song.

A surrender then, if only for appearance’s sake. At the very least a white flag would grant him parlay. Of course, Euron could simply decide to ignore it, and fire upon them anyway, but Petyr doubted it.

Euron was the type of man who liked to toy with his victims first, and he certainly enjoyed gloating over any perceived triumphs. 

“Raise the white flag,” Petyr instructed Lothor. “We’re going to try for parlay.”

 

* * *

 

As the Song made its slow approach, Petyr tried to get Sansa to stay in the captain’s quarters, or better yet, below in the crew’s quarters. Anywhere but on deck with the rest of them. She refused. She wouldn’t leave his side.

“I’m not going to change my mind, so stop trying,” Sansa said flatly, crossing her arms in a show of defiance.

“Sweetling, you know nothing of battle,” he protested. “You’re going to get hurt.”

“I don’t care. You’ll be out there, risking your life, and Arya and Gendry will too. I’m staying,” she insisted.

He groaned, but he could tell her mind was made up. Nothing he said would dissuade her. He thought briefly about asking Lothor to haul her bodily down into the belly of the ship, where she could be shut in the brig, but decided against it. Arya would probably make good on her threat to skewer him with that sword of hers, even if he was only doing it for Sansa’s own good.

Instead he dropped the matter, and they waited together with the rest of the crew, watching as the mist parted to reveal the Song in all its glory.

It was almost as beautiful as he remembered it.

Now close enough to see each other through the haze, Petyr could hear the jeers from Euron and his crew, and, strangely, the chittering of a monkey. Beside him, Sansa was gripping his hand so tightly that her knuckles had whitened, and he could feel her pulse fluttering against his skin, fast as a hummingbird’s. The tension seemed as thick as the surrounding mist, settling into their lungs with each breath they took, flooding their muscles, gripping their limbs. 

It was suffocating.

The Song pulled abreast of the Interceptor, a thick curtain of mist shielding them briefly before there was maniacal scream and Euron burst into view, shattering through the haze. Petyr’s former first mate let go of the rope he’d used to swing across, his boots thundering onto the deck as he let out another roar. A monkey was perched on Euron’s shoulder, baring its teeth as it screeched along with its master.

Euron always did like to make an entrance.

In an instant more yells rent the air, and boards slapped onto the railing, a flood of pirates racing across the narrow bridges they afforded. Still more swung into view as their captain had, cementing the theatrical nature of their appearance. 

Petyr had made sure he and his crew were well away from the rail closest to the Song, expecting the Interceptor to be boarded as soon as Euron deemed it feasible. Still, more than a few flinched upon sighting Euron, and Sansa let out a small squeak that Petyr found terribly endearing even if she was terrified. As instructed though, everyone kept quiet and still, their hands not upon the pommels of their swords, but not far either.

Euron surveyed them all with a gleam in his eyes, his gaze settling first on Petyr (a flicker of confusion, briefly) and then on Sansa before flicking to the rest of the crew. He laughed. “What’s this? You’ve found yourself another crew and a ship? And one stolen from the Royal Navy, too! Tell me Petyr, however did you manage it? Last I heard, Rams and Reek said you were rotting in a cell in Port Royal.”

Petyr shrugged. “I have my ways.”

Euron’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you’ve turned against your own kind?” He nodded at Sansa. “The Royal Navy ask you to help find her? In exchange for your freedom?”

“Does it matter?” Petyr asked.

“I suppose not,” Euron mused. “I’m going to kill you anyway, regardless of your answer.”

Euron drew his sword, and the rest of his crew followed suit, the corners of their mouths lifting up as they did so. They were enjoying this. Battle had become merely a game to them. They had no fear, and only a thirst for bloodshed.

Petyr felt Sansa shift uneasily beside him. He wanted to find her hand again, to squeeze it reassuringly, but he knew better not to. The less they revealed about their relationship, the better, else Euron could use it against them.

“I’d advise against it,” Petyr told them. “Else you’ll lose your one chance to break that little curse of yours. Unless of course you  **_want_ ** to go on with life as it is for you currently. I imagine even men of the cloth take more enjoyment than you. But perhaps you’re all content being impotent,” he mused.

There were several looks of confusion and Petyr sighed. Really, he wished his brethren were a bit more learned. He tried again, foregoing subtlety in favor of getting his point across. “Eunuchs are like to enjoy the touch of a woman more than you lot.”

A snarl rippled through Euron’s crew, but Euron looked intrigued. “And what would you know of the curse? Save for what the wench told you?”

Petyr smirked. “I know I have what you need to break it.”

Euron laughed. “Aye, I know you do. But if you’ve hopes of bargaining that for your lives, you’re sadly mistaken. We can just as easily kill you and take it.”

“You can,” Petyr agreed. “But it wouldn’t be the wisest course of action. Spill our blood and you lose any chance you might have had to end the curse.”

“Is that so?” Euron nodded at Sansa. “Hate to tell you, old friend, but that girl’s not any relation to Bootstrap.”

“Oh I know,” Petyr assured him. “It’s not her I speak of.”

Euron’s gaze swept over Petyr’s shipmates, searching, before settling on Petyr again. “Tell me.”

Petyr shook his head. “I’m afraid that information comes with a price.”

Euron suddenly let out a howl of laughter. “Oh, I see!  **_That’s_ ** why you’ve come! You’re hoping to get your ship back, hmmm?”

The undead pirates sniggered, and the monkey hopped up and down on Euron’s shoulder, excited. 

Euron finally quieted, wiping at his eyes. “A good try, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. I might agree to spare some of your lives in exchange, but even that’s pushing it.”

Petyr hadn’t expected Euron to agree to giving up the Song, so the refusal did little to unnerve him. But he did need to stall, just a bit longer. “The Song, and all of our lives spared, or no deal. We’ll go to our graves for anything less.”

“That can be arranged,” Euron snarled, stepping forward menacingly, his crew mimicking their captain.

The moon peeked out from behind the cloud cover above, permeating the mist and bathing Euron and his crew in silver. Several of Petyr’s crew visibly recoiled at the sight, as men turned to corpses before their very eyes, but they held steady regardless. Petyr felt a flicker of pride.

“Then I’m afraid your chance of breaking the curse dies with us,” Petyr said smoothly.

“Unless we haul each of you ashore and cut your throats over the gold,” Euron spat, taking another step forward. His face shifted again, revealing smooth skin where before had only been bone.

Petyr’s eyes flicked up to see that the moon was still shining, unconcealed, above them, then back down to see the rest of the crew had similarly transformed.

Davos had done it.

In one swift moment Petyr retrieved his pistol, pointing it straight at Euron’s heart. “Go on, try it,” he urged. 

Around him, the rest of his crew drew their weapons. Euron stared at them for a moment, incredulous, then raised his sword. “What is dead may never die!” he cried.

The monkey, still perched on Euron’s shoulder, shook his fist at them and screeched. Euron’s crew raised their swords as one and chorused the same phrase, before charging, all confident, unafraid of death. 

Petyr pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <333


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle begins.

**_Sansa:_ **

Sansa watched as blood bloomed across Euron’s chest, as he stopped mid stride and stared down at the wound above where his heart lay beneath his skin, startled. Around him, everyone else had stopped to stare at the captain, his crew uncertain. The monkey, who’d fled the moment Petyr had fired his pistol, startled by the sound, was nowhere to be seen. Euron glanced up again, blood bubbling from his lips, then staggered back, two of his crewmen catching him before he fell. She saw their eyes widen in understanding, unease, then fear, following soon after.

But though Euron’s crew had grown hesitant, Petyr’s crew had been emboldened. They allowed only a brief respite before resuming their charge, the enemy only just barely recovering in time to parry the blows, a few meeting their grisly end seconds into the battle. She held back, with Petyr, Arya and Gendry all in front of her in a protective semi circle, Lothor Brune nearby. Though she was fairly confident that no one could get through them, she clutched her dagger all the same.

She watched as Petyr used the daggers he’d armed himself with earlier, flinging them through the chaos, where they struck their targets every time, most piercing a vital organ or artery. His pistol lay at his feet, its one bullet already spent, buried in Euron’s heart. The sword at Petyr’s hip remained untouched until he had thrown all but one of his daggers, though he had little need to use it as Lothor stopped most before they neared close enough to fight.

It was exhilarating, watching the battle unfold before her. Sansa never would have thought it, but she didn’t mind the gore. Rather, she found it vaguely interesting, and she actually very much liked the thrill she felt each time she saw one of Petyr’s daggers strike home. She was proud of him, and he looked so good doing it that she had a very strong urge to pull him away from the battle and tear off his clothes, danger be damned.

Arya was holding up admirably as well, though it wasn’t long before Sansa lost sight of her sister. Gendry had gone pale and darted away into the thick of it, and before Sansa could beg her sister not to follow him, Arya had disappeared as well. The fact that Sansa no longer knew with any certainty whether her sister was alright significantly reduced her enjoyment of the battle (which, she supposed she shouldn’t have been enjoying it in the first place). 

It was only maybe a minute or two after that when the Hound and Bronn dodged around Lothor, who was fighting with another of Euron’s crew, heading straight for her and Petyr. Alarmed, Petyr moved to block her from their sight, raising his sword, but they both lowered theirs.

“We’re surrendering,” the Hound grunted. “We’ve only stayed with Euron this long in hopes of breaking the curse. Now that it’s broken, we’ve no longer any loyalty to him.”

“He’s dead,” Petyr reminded him.

“That too,” Bronn agreed. “But we’d’ve defected anyway. The mutiny never sat right with us, and the gods know we’ve regretted it.”

Petyr didn’t lower his sword, still wary. “Of course you regret it. You’ve spent nearly a decade wasting away. Forgive me if I’m not inclined to think it was anything more than that.”

The Hound sighed, his eyes seeking out Sansa’s. “Little bird,” he pleaded.

Sansa bit her lip. The Hound had protected her, aboard the Song. And she did remember hearing that both Bronn and the Hound hadn’t agreed to the mutiny, from their own lips. And that they’d planned on leaving the Song once the curse was broken. They didn’t entirely deserve her mercy (they had helped kidnap her, after all), but she’d give it to them now regardless. After all, Petyr needed more men to crew the Song.

“I trust them,” Sansa said, moving out from behind Petyr. 

Petyr’s mouth twitched. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I have my reasons, which we can discuss later.”

Petyr lowered his sword. “Fine.” He nodded at the battle. “Prove it then,” he told the Hound and Bronn. “Help me keep her safe, and kill any of Euron’s crew that strays near. If I find out you’ve done any serious damage to any of my own crew, deal’s off. After the battle’s done, we’ll talk.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bronn said, lifting his sword again as he swiveled to face the fight.

Things were calming down now, and though Petyr’s crew had been outnumbered, they’d had surprise as an advantage, as well as something even more crucial. Euron’s crew had grown sloppy in their technique over the years, having no need to guard against getting maimed for fear of death or injury that might impair their ability to fight. They weren’t used to fighting as if their lives depended on it, and they weren’t used to feeling pain (or anything, for that matter), and they had grown careless because of it. Where before they’d take any bullet, sword to the belly, knife in the thigh, etc, in stride, their fighting unhindered, now they weren’t so lucky. Any time any of the men were wounded, their reaction was greater than it might have been had they not spent nearly a decade in numbness. This alone was often enough to spell their deaths, or even the occasional surrender (though the surrender was nearly always a trick, which never worked, thankfully). 

Sansa was just feeling confident that the battle was theirs when her heart stopped. Arya and Gendry had finally reappeared, each fighting furiously with a pirate, both of whom Sansa easily recognized.

It was Rams and Reek.

 

* * *

 

**_Arya:_ **

One moment Arya had been in the high that only success in battle could bring, Gendry by her side, Sansa behind them (Arya had been surprised that Sansa had insisted on being present, and more than a little proud, too), and the next Gendry had fled without even a word as to where he was going or why. Without thinking, Arya cursed and darted into the thick of the battle, trying to follow him. 

The deck was slick with blood, and more than few corpses were underfoot as she struggled through the chaos. More than once she had to stop and fend off an attack from one of Euron’s crew, but each time someone else arrived to step in from Baelish’s crew, leaving her free to move on. 

She finally found Gendry slightly removed from the battle, fighting with two pirates while his father sat hunched against the ship’s rail, face pale, hands pressed to a wound in his side. Gendry was putting up a valiant effort, but it was clear that he was no match for the danger the two pirates posed. Arya immediately leapt in to his defense, Needle clashing with the sword held by the pirate whose stench didn’t make her want to gag (at least not as much). 

Gendry’s eyes flashed with a mixture of fear and relief, and then she lost sight of him as her opponent drove her backwards, his strikes vicious and strong, without mercy. She held up her own as best she could, but she was quickly realizing that she was no match for this pirate. He was simply too skilled with a sword, and she could find no advantage to press in her favor. There was a gleam in the pirate’s eyes, one that scared her, and she wondered what it was that she could see, that would frighten her so. She wasn’t a girl that was easily frightened.

A stench filling her nostrils (one removed from the stink of battle, and far, far worse, which was certainly saying something) told her that the other pirate Gendry had been fighting with must be close by, and she hoped that Gendry was as well, though she couldn’t afford to glance away from her opponent and confirm. Over and over she parried with Needle, her wrists and forearms burning, her breaths coming in gasps. Rather than striking in offense, it was all she could do to defend herself from the pirate’s attacks. And she wasn’t certain she could even do that for much longer. 

She needed help.

A cry reached her ears, one so familiar to her, and Arya’s heart sank, imagining the worst, that Sansa was in danger. Then her sister cried out again, and it was Arya’s name that left Sansa’s lips, and Arya knew that her sister was safe, that Sansa’s alarm was only for her. Arya felt the relief bolster her energy, the shaking in her limbs subsiding, and redoubled her efforts, putting everything she had into each strike and parry. As she fought, another joined her, stepping in to help, and her eyes widened in surprise as she realized who it was.

It was Baelish.

His mouth was set in grim determination, and Arya didn’t stop to wonder why he had come to her aid, only grateful that he had. Together they began to make headway, and Arya saw the grin slipping from the pirate’s face as he realized it. Hope sparked in her heart.

And then there was another cry, this one of pain, and Arya knew it was Gendry’s. Alarmed, she allowed a brief lapse in her focus, eyes flicking to where she thought the sound had come from. Gendry was still on his feet, though there was wicked slash across one cheek, blood streaking down to his chin, dripping on to his clothes, mingling with the filth coating the deck, and she could see another wound cutting into his shoulder. A flicker of movement drew her attention back to her own fight, and she ducked just in time to avoid losing an arm.

Sansa screamed.

“Go!” Baelish yelled at Arya. “Help him.”

Arya gave him a look of disbelief. “You can’t handle this bastard on your own!”

“Just do it,” he snapped.

Gendry cried out again, and Arya didn’t need to be told twice. She abandoned Baelish, knowing her sister would hate her if Baelish was killed, but knowing that Gendry was worth it all the same.

She couldn’t lose Gendry. Not now.

Not when she was starting to realize that he meant absolutely everything to her. 

Above all else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger again - but don't worry too much, okay? I'm good to our favorite creepyship, I promise <333


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the battle, and the aftermath.

**_Sansa:_ **

Sansa had been frightened many times over the last few days, had even thought more than once that she might die, but she’d never been more scared in her entire life than right now, in this moment, as she watched Petyr, Arya, and Gendry fight for their lives. When Arya and Gendry had appeared, fighting Rams and Reek, respectively, she’d thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse. And then it had. 

Petyr had ordered the Hound and Bronn to watch over Sansa, to keep her safe (and nothing else, else the deal was off), and had jumped in to help Arya, who was clearly no match for Rams. Sansa had been pleased that he would do that for her sister, but terrified that now she might very well lose both Arya and Petyr. Again, she’d thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse. 

And yet it had.

She really needed to stop thinking that. Every time she did, the universe seemed insistent on proving her wrong.

Gendry had been struggling to hold his own against Reek, and both Petyr and Arya had noticed. No one else was free to help Gendry, either dead, too injured, or otherwise engaged, and Petyr had quickly sized up the situation and ordered Arya to help Gendry. Sansa could see that it was against Petyr’s better instinct to do it, but she also could see that Arya was likely going to be too distracted about Gendry to be of any use against Rams anymore. If Arya stayed with Petyr to fight Rams, then it was likely she’d get herself, or Petyr, or even both of them, killed.

The only problem was, Petyr wasn’t exactly the most skilled of swordsmen, and he wasn’t much better off after Arya left to help Gendry.

“Help him!” Sansa pleaded with the Hound and Bronn. 

The Hound shook his head. “He ordered us to stay and guard you.”

“Both of you don’t need to do it,” Sansa snapped. 

Bronn shrugged. “Orders are orders. I’d rather follow them and keep my head, thanks.”

“If he dies, then the deal is off anyway,” she said. 

“Oh, he won’t die. He’s been in much worse scrapes than this,” Bronn assured her.

Sansa stamped her foot, never mind that it was infantile to do so — she was getting desperate. “Please!” 

They ignored her.

Fine. If they wouldn’t help, then she’d do it herself. 

Sansa gripped the dagger Petyr had given her earlier, contemplating her options. She could stab one of them, then kick the other between the legs. Or….

Her eyes alighted on the pistol Petyr had discarded earlier, still laying at her feet. It was empty of bullets, but she had a rather different idea in mind. 

Quickly, she replaced the dagger in its sheath, then bent and scooped the pistol up, spinning it in her grip until she had a firm hold. Then, both pirates completely unaware as they stood in front of her, she smacked Bronn in the back of the head with all the strength she could muster. Bronn cried out in surprise, then crumpled, and the Hound whirled around, alarmed.

“Little bird?” he asked.

Without hesitation, she kicked out, her boot easily finding its target. The Hound grunted, his body bent double as his eyes watered, and she pressed her advantage, whacking him across the forehead with the butt of the pistol. He collapsed, groaning loudly.

Satisfied, she leapt over both of them, pulling out the dagger once more as she raced to where Rams had cornered Petyr. Time was running out. 

Rams was laughing, and she could see the fear in Petyr’s eyes. It was clear that Petyr had only lasted as long as he had because Rams had been toying with him. Petyr saw her, she could tell from the way his mouth twitched, but otherwise he made no indication of it, and Rams remained unaware of her presence. Eyes flashing, Sansa gripped her dagger, carefully sneaking closer and closer, until she was right behind Rams.

And then she struck.

It was so satisfying, the way the dagger sunk between his shoulder blades, driving through flesh and bone straight to the hilt. Rams’ back arched, and he dropped his sword, the blade clattering against the deck. A laugh gurgled from his lips as he spied Sansa out of the corner of his eye.

“What a pathetic excuse for a pirate you are. Can’t even win a fight without help from a girl,” he sneered at Petyr.

Sansa grasped the hilt of the dagger and yanked it out, then plunged it in again. “If you think that’s a slight, then surely it must be an even greater insult to be  **_killed_ ** by a girl,” she hissed.

Rams sunk to his knees and Petyr moved to stand by Sansa’s side as she retrieved the dagger once more and stabbed him a third time. Before she could yank it free again, Rams slumped to the deck, eyes glassy. Her hands were warm with his blood, but she hardly felt it. Instead she felt a certain triumph. The world didn’t need men like Rams in it. Taking his life wouldn’t haunt her.

Petyr was watching her, she could feel it, and when she glanced up she saw a glint in his eyes, and a smirk upon his lips, and knew he was proud of her. Her lips curved to match his as he re-sheathed his sword, and then he was gathering her in his arms, and his mouth was upon hers, and nothing had ever felt so right.

 

* * *

 

**_Arya:_ **

Arya had struggled before, fighting against the other pirate with and without Baelish, but now she’d found her stride. The smelly pirate wasn’t nearly as adept as the other pirate, this was true, but she and Gendry were both exhausted, and Gendry was injured, so she felt that it all balanced out. Having fought together for years, she and Gendry worked easily as a team, and soon she felt confident that they would win, that they could kill this pirate and then go help Baelish if he needed it (which she assumed he would — if he was even still alive).

It wasn’t long before they’d driven the pirate to his knees, and Arya stepped forward as Gendry held the pirate down, using Needle to slit the disgusting pirate’s throat. Blood sprayed across the deck, and Arya wiped Needle clean on her trousers before slipping it into its sheath. When she’d cleaned her hands as well (on the hem of her shirt), she glanced up to see Gendry grinning at her. She couldn’t help but grin at him too.

“Excellent work, my lady,” he teased.

“I’ve told you a thousand times not to call me that.” She hated it when he did it, and he knew it.

“Perhaps I needed you to tell me once more,” he said, laughing.

Arya stalked forward and slugged him on the shoulder (thankfully she remembered to hit his uninjured shoulder, else she might have felt bad about it). “Stop it,” she said. “I just saved your life, and this is the thanks I get?”

He continued to laugh. “I don’t see what the problem is. You are a lady.”

“I am not,” she insisted.

Gendry raised his eyebrows, his gaze lowering slightly before meeting hers again. “Could’ve fooled me.”

She felt her cheeks heat as she gathered his meaning. “You meant it in a different way than that and you know it.”

“And you’re that too. You might not want to act like a proper lady but you were born to be one,” he said.

“Just because you were born to be something doesn’t mean you don’t have other options,” she shot back.   


He crossed his arms. “And what else did you want to be?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Thought maybe I wouldn’t mind being a pirate.”

There was a flicker of hope in his eyes. “Really? I thought you didn’t like them.”   


“They’re not all bad,” she said. “And some are better than most.” She paused. “One, in particular.”

He nodded somberly. “Captain Baelish.”

Arya slugged him again and he laughed, which only made her angrier. Here she was, pouring out her heart, and he was laughing at her.  **_Again._ ** She punched him a third time, then, when he still wouldn’t stop, she grabbed his collar and yanked him closer, kissing him full on the mouth before shoving him away again. He stumbled back, looking dazed, but he was no longer laughing, or saying anything, which she considered an improvement.

“I’m going to check on Sansa,” she told him, when it was clear he was too dumbstruck to do or say anything at the moment. “Perhaps you should go find your father.”

She saw the color drain from his face and felt guilty for not mentioning it earlier, but didn’t say anything more as he turned and ran off to Davos. Really, she wanted to check on Davos too, but Sansa was much more important to her at the moment. After she was certain Sansa was safe, she might check to see if Baelish was still alive, then go to Gendry and Davos.

Her heart sank as she returned to where she’d last seen Sansa, only to find that her sister was gone, and the two pirates that had been looking after her were both on the ground, only one still conscious.

“Where is she?” Arya demanded of the one that was still awake, whose face was covered in burns.

The burned man pointed and Arya turned to see Sansa and Baelish standing over the pirate Arya had fought with Baelish earlier. As she watched, Sansa stabbed the pirate in the back, and the man crumpled to the ground. Arya’s mouth fell open, then closed again, curving in a scowl as Baelish and Sansa began to kiss. 

Gross.

The battle was now finished, the only pirates from Euron’s crew still alive the ones that Sansa must have somehow knocked unconscious. Arya made her way across the deck, stepping gingerly around corpses and pools of blood, heading straight to where Gendry was sitting with Davos. The older pirate still looked pale, but Ros was stooped next to him, tending to his wound, and Arya was heartened by the expression on the woman’s face; Ros didn’t look too worried, and Arya counted on that as a good sign. 

As Arya approached, Ros rose to her feet. “That’ll have to do for now,” she told Davos. “I’ve got to get back to Tyrion, and a few others need patched up. You’ll do well to see a doctor once we get back to Tortuga. My skills are rudimentary at best.”

Arya swallowed. It had just occurred to her that others might have been wounded in the battle. Maybe even killed. She wanted to ask after Tyrion, and the others, but Ros was gone before Arya could find the words. Swallowing again, she crouched next to Gendry. “I’m glad you’re going to be alright,” she said to Davos.

The older pirate chuckled. “Take more’n that to kill me. I’ve already died a fair few times, in truth.”

A look of confusion crossed Gendry’s face. “I thought you weren’t cursed,” he said, tone accusatory.

“I wasn’t. I haven’t met my end as such yet. But there are many who’ve thought me dead through the years,” Davos explained. “I’ve led three lives in one lifetime. Hopefully my fourth’ll be the last.”

Gendry frowned. “I don’t understand.”

A look of regret passed over Davos’ face and he grunted and looked away. “Now’s not the time, son. We’ve got dead to deal with, and this here lady’s father to find, I imagine.” He nodded at Arya, then turned back to Gendry. “But soon enough, you’ll know all. I promise.”

Arya could tell Gendry wanted to press the matter, but he didn’t. She would have done so for him, if not for her sister’s approach. Sansa was holding Baelish’s hand, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Despite the carnage all around, she looked happy.

“We’re going over to check out the Song,” Sansa said. “Lothor already checked it out, along with Oberyn and Ellaria, to make sure no one else was lurking below deck to catch us unawares. Only the monkey, and the Hound and Bronn are still alive, but we shut the monkey in a cage and the other two have surrendered willingly to our side.” She paused. “Best get Davos someplace else, and get Gendry checked out. The rest of the wounded are in the captain’s quarters at present, and Lothor and a few others will be cleaning up the deck shortly. Once they’re done, we’re going to search for Father on the way back to Tortuga.”

“I’d have thought everyone would want to row ashore first, take their shares of the treasure,” Davos said, his gaze directed at Baelish.

“Aye, that was the original idea,” said Baelish. “But Tyrion’s in a bad state, and the rest like him enough that they’re fine with heading back to Tortuga first. He might not make it otherwise. Ros is doing her best, but he needs better. No one save us knows the island’s location. The treasure will be secure enough while we regroup and recover in Tortuga.”

“And you think it wise, trusting the Hound and Bronn again?” asked Davos.

“They’re not loyal to me, I know that,” Baelish said. “But the Hound at least is attached to Sansa. And Bronn goes with whatever suits him best in the moment. Which, conveniently, is siding with us. That’s enough for now.”

Arya frowned as her sister gave a little wave, then disappeared with Baelish. She wondered what Baelish had meant just then. Had her sister really charmed one of Euron’s men to her side?  If so, then Arya couldn’t help but feel proud of Sansa once again. 

It seemed that both of them were now meant for a life at sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the new chapter! As always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated <333


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damages and casualties from the battle are assessed. The Interceptor and the Song set sail again, this time in search of Commodore Stark, and Tortuga beyond that.

**_Petyr:_ **

All in all, the battle had lain considerably in their favor, in success as well as in a lack of casualties. Only one of their number had been lost, though it was a great loss indeed. Syrio Forel had taken on and killed more of Euron’s men than the rest of them combined, and yet he alone had perished. Petyr mourned the legendary pirate’s death more than he would have anyone else’s, save for Sansa of course. They would give Syrio a proper send off once they reached Rumrunner’s island, on their way back to Tortuga. 

They owed him that much.

There were several wounded too, Tyrion the most severely of the few, his condition as such that Petyr wondered if Tyrion might soon perish as well, before they could make it back to Tortuga and the better, if still inadequate, medical care offered there. Other than Tyrion, Davos (who must have found a way back on board during the fight), Gendry, Shae and Olyvar all had cuts, ranging from deep to minor, but Ros seemed fairly confident that they’d all survive. She’d used alcohol to clean the wounds, binding them with cloth as best she could when she’d finished. 

After Petyr had seen to his crew and relayed orders for how to proceed (concerning clean up, Syrio, the treasure, and the search for Ned Stark), he spoke briefly with Davos before finally, for the first time in over seven years, boarding the Mockingbird’s Song.  **_His_ ** Song.

It was still beautiful, though not without some wear and tear. Euron and his crew hadn’t been entirely gentle with the ship. Far from it. But all of that could be fixed in time, and the grime and sour memories washed away. Sansa was with him as he explored every inch of the Song, checking for and cataloging any neglect as he went, making plans. She was quiet, but only because she sensed, and rightly so, that he wanted silence in this moment, time to think and reflect and revel in the glory of success  **_at last_ ** .

He wanted to seal his triumph by taking her, right then and there, as they stood all alone on his newly re-acquired ship. But the Song still held the stench and memories of Euron and his crew, and Petyr felt it would be better, far worthier, to wait until his ship was free of both. Then, and only then, would they rechristen his ship in a way that was worthy of them all.

When he’d finished surveying the Song, they went back above deck to find that the Interceptor was nearly ready for departure. Petyr signaled to Lothor, and his now former first mate sent across the crew they’d agreed upon earlier. It would be difficult, now that they were officially short two of the crew they’d sailed with before, and they had both the Song and the Interceptor to captain, but at least Bronn and the Hound’s surrender would make up the difference somewhat. Both joined Petyr on the Song, along with Davos, Gendry, and Arya. The rest stayed with Ros and Lothor on the Interceptor, with Ros as their new captain, though the crews would likely change somewhat after they reached Tortuga.

Petyr passed off his compass to Sansa, who held it in her hands and concentrated for a few minutes, the arrow swerving between him and a destination yet unknown until finally it stopped, giving them a bearing. Sansa opened her eyes and brightened when she saw that it worked, but her smile quickly fell when she met his gaze. He didn’t want her to get her hopes up.

“This will take us to him, but you must be prepared for what we might find, sweetling,” he said gently.

She closed her eyes and nodded. “I know,” she whispered. 

Petyr pressed a kiss to her forehead then sent her to the helm while he directed his crew. He planned eventually to make Sansa his first mate, but though her father was a Commodore in the Royal Navy, she still had much to learn, and it was different besides, taking charge of pirates rather than men of the military. Arya and Gendry still had much to learn as well, if they were planning to stay aboard any ship (which Petyr thought they might), but they were both proving to be fairly quick studies, thankfully. As for the rest of the crew, the Hound and Bronn were both seasoned pirates, and though Davos was moving with some difficulty at present, he managed well enough.

Soon they were well on their way, Sansa at the helm, the Interceptor not far behind. The compass was guiding them in the same direction that would take them to Rumrunner’s Island, and to Tortuga beyond that, and though Sansa kept saying how fortunate that was, Petyr kept wondering if perhaps they were heading to a dead end. Either they were on their way to the wreckage of the Dauntless and Ned Stark’s watery grave, or Sansa hadn’t successfully directed the compass. It wasn’t an exact science, getting the compass to point to what you needed when your heart was conflicted about what it wanted most. 

The closer they neared to Rumrunner’s Island, the more Petyr suspected he might be correct. They didn’t see the Dauntless, but there was plenty of debris floating about that spoke of a sea battle. Considering the amount, he doubted that the Dauntless had done anything more than sink; in such a state, it could do little else. Still, Sansa remained determined to see it through to the end, and though he didn’t want to see her hurt, he didn’t have a hope of dissuading her. 

Gods. Petyr didn’t think he’d ever see the day where he might hope that Ned Stark was alive.

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa:_ **

Sansa’s hands were shaking as she held the compass with both hands, her eyes darting between where the needle quivered and then stilled as her wants shifted, and where a familiar island lay, her view of it growing ever clearer as the Song cut through the water towards it. Petyr had taken over for her at the helm, his gaze as oft upon her own face as on the compass’ bearing and the island ahead. Though he didn’t speak, she sensed what he must be thinking. They’d passed enough shipwreck debris not to think it.

He didn’t think there was any hope.

But she couldn’t let herself surrender to despair just yet. Until it was proven otherwise, she’d retain her hope that her father was still alive. 

Arya was of a similar mind. Sansa could see it in the set of her sister’s jaw. They wouldn’t give up. Not yet.

And then they saw something that fed into that hope, and Sansa clung to it desperately, her heart lightening, ever so slightly.

Smoke was curling through the air, gaining strength as it billowed and spread with the wind. Sansa rushed forward to lean over the rail, squinting at the island. There upon the beach was an enormous blaze belching smoke in a continuous stream that stretched through the sky, beckoning them forward.

It was a signal fire.

Arya whooped and Sansa felt a grin spread across her face before she quickly stifled it. She didn’t doubt that survivors from the Dauntless were taking refuge on the island, but whether her father was among them, alive and safe, was another matter. His men might have buried him somewhere along the beach or further inland, and that alone might have directed the compass’ course. She didn’t want to celebrate until she was certain.

Sansa stayed where she was, the compass clutched in one hand as the fingers of the other curled around the railing. Her eyes never left the island, determinedly searching for signs that her father might be alive. Arya didn’t join her, too busy helping Petyr and the rest of the crew sail the Song, anxious to get to Rumrunner’s Island as quickly as possible.

Both the Song and the Interceptor stopped and let out their anchors a comfortable rowing distance from the island, deciding against beaching the ships for the trouble it would take to get them moving again. Tyrion, who was too wounded to make the trip ashore, and Shae, who refused to leave his side, stayed aboard the Interceptor, and Davos (whose injury had started to take its toll) watched over the Song with Gendry (who seemed reluctant to see Commodore Stark again. Sansa couldn’t blame him there. Her father had intended to try Gendry as a pirate), but everyone else rowed ashore. 

They brought the body of Syrio Forel with them, carefully wrapped in a sail that had needed patching, and ready for a burial that wouldn’t be worthy of the renowned pirate, but was the best they could manage at present. The Hound and Bronn were in charge of transporting Syrio, and Sansa was glad to see that they both treated Syrio’s body with the reverence she knew he deserved (Arya had told Sansa much of the pirate, and how she’d admired him greatly in the little time she’d known him).

As they began to row ashore, Sansa saw a lone figure moving about on the beach, heard shouts and cries of exaltation. Her hope broke free from the reason she had kept it chained with and soared, boundless. 

And then she saw him, and he was splashing in the water towards her, and Arya too. Impatient, Arya leapt from their little boat and swam over to meet him, and their father scooped Arya up into his arms as easily as if she were still a small child, swinging her around as he laughed. Sansa felt herself beaming, and she wanted to go to her father too, but she waited until they were well into the shallows before she climbed out of the boat and waded over to greet him. 

Commodore Stark immediately pulled her in for a hug, even as he still held Arya, holding them both close, his grip so tight that Sansa might have complained about it had she not been gripping him back just as fiercely. “My girls,” he murmured. “I thought… I thought I’d never see either of you again.” 

They stood there for a time, locked in their embrace, and then he withdrew enough to pull them onto dry land. Once they were completely out of the water, he gave Sansa and Arya another squeeze, then stepped back, his gaze searching. “You’re both alright? You’re not hurt?”

Arya shook her head. “We’re fine,” Sansa assured him. “But we’ve been so worried about  **_you_ ** .”

Her father’s face lost some of its joy. He glanced up and around, his expression darkening as he took in Petyr and the others. With a scowl, he took another couple of steps back and quickly drew out his sword. 

“Father, no!” Sansa’s heart stopped at the sight of the steel.

“Unless you’ve still got an army at your disposal, I’d put that away,” Petyr said, tone unconcerned. “You’re woefully outnumbered, at present.”

“You kidnapped my daughters!” Commodore Stark insisted, refusing to lower his sword.

Petyr smirked. “I assure you I did no such thing. They both came with me quite willingly.”

Commodore Stark let out a roar of anger and took two steps towards Petyr, then stopped as Ellaria, Oberyn, Olyvar, Ros, and Lothor all drew their swords. Sansa watched as her father’s gaze flicked further inland, then back at the pirates. He lowered his sword, looking defeated. 

Petyr nodded at Ellaria and Oberyn. “Disarm him.”

As commanded, they started forward, but Arya drew Needle and stepped in front of Commander Stark, looking furious. “We didn’t come all this way just for you to kill him,” she spat at Petyr,

“I’m doing nothing of the sort,” Petyr said, a hint of humor in his eyes at Arya’s presumption. “He’ll not be harmed so long as he cooperates. And forgive me, but I don’t trust him enough to leave him armed. Nor without guard.”

Arya glared at Petyr. “And I don’t trust you. You’ve betrayed me once already!”   


“Technically I didn’t. I only planned to,” Petyr said lightly. “And it seemed necessary at the time. I certainly never expected that we’d be fortunate enough to rescue Sansa without a fight.”

“And you wanted your ship,” Arya reminded him, eyes still blazing.

“That too,” he agreed. “But regardless, that’s all changed now. Your sister’s happiness matters to me, and I can hardly expect to remain in her good graces if I hurt her father.”

Sansa watched as Arya considered this for a moment, finally sheathing Needle and stepping aside to let Ellaria and Oberyn disarm the Commodore, whose face had turned blotchy upon these new revelations. Still, he didn’t fight the pirates as they relieved him of sword, dagger, and pistol, nor did he speak. Sansa felt dread growing in her heart. She’d been so concerned with rescuing her father that she hadn’t stopped to think about what her father’s reaction to her relationship with Petyr might be, or how to begin to deal with it.

Once Ellaria and Oberyn had made certain that Commodore Stark was no longer armed in any capacity, Petyr asked, “Are you the lone survivor then, or are there others?”

Commodore Stark looked hesitant, and Sansa quickly spoke up. “Any survivors are welcome to join us, so long as they surrender their weapons as well.”

Petyr nodded. “And so long as they agree to spend their journey with us in the brig. We don’t need a mutiny on our hands. We’ll provide food and drink, and safe passage to Tortuga. After that, you’re on your own.”

“There’s three more of us,” Commodore Stark admitted. “But one is badly injured. Fortunately, one of our number was the ship’s physician, but he can do very little now without access to the proper supplies.”

Sansa saw several of the pirates brighten at this news. “We’re in need of physician ourselves,” Petyr said. “If he’ll agree to tend to our wounded, then he can have what he needs to fix up yours.”

Commodore Stark bowed his head. “Agreed.” It was begrudgingly said, and easily read as such, but Petyr made no comment.

Instead, he addressed his crew. “You five,” he pointed at Oberyn and Ellaria, Olyvar, and Lothor and Ros “go with the Commodore and retrieve his men. Remember to disarm them first, and just leave the weapons behind. We have plenty. Bring them back to the beach. We’ll put them under guard while you two,” here he indicated the Hound and Bronn, “dig a grave for Syrio. The rest can raid the Rumrunner’s stores for necessities.” He paused. “And a cask or two of rum. That should please Tyrion.”

“Rum is always a necessity,” said Olyvar, winking cheerfully.

“Truer words have never been said,” grunted Lothor. He jerked his head at Commodore Stark. “Come now. Time’s pressing.”

Sansa’s father glanced anxiously at her, then at Arya, and back at Sansa again. “We’ll be fine,” Sansa assured him. He didn’t look convinced. 

“I’ll go with you,” Arya said firmly, shooting a glare at Petyr that dared him to say otherwise. Petyr just shrugged.

Commodore Stark still looked reluctant, but after one last pleading glance at Sansa he led the way to his camp of survivors. Sansa stayed behind with Petyr on the beach, where they walked around for a bit, searching for the perfect spot to bury Syrio Forel. When they found it, a shaded little copse with birds singing nearby, the Hound and Bronn set to digging, using the oars from one of the boats they’d used to row ashore. 

The other pirates, Commodore Stark, and Arya found them shortly after, two men carrying a third, in tow. All of them looked very weak, and Sansa was startled to see that, upon second glance, her father looked weak as well. The battles they’d been through, with Euron’s crew, and for survival afterwards, had clearly taken a toll on them. None looked capable of putting up a fight, even if Petyr hadn’t had them stripped of their weapons. They looked bone tired and hungry. 

Haunted.

She didn’t want to think about what they must have gone through. So many men had set sail with her father to find her. 

And so few would return.

No, she wouldn’t think on it. Else she would drown. She and Petyr had survived. Her father had survived. Arya and Gendry had survived. That was what mattered most. And it would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about Syrio, but I thought it was fitting for him to go down like he did in canon and though it was hard to kill him off there had to be at least one casualty on their side :(
> 
> Hope you liked the chapter other than that! As always, comments and kudos are much appreciated. You can also send me asks on tumblr (@petyrbaealish) if you want <333


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Arya have a talk with their father.

**_Sansa:_ **

They buried Syrio Forel just as dawn was breaking, and each present (save for her father and his men) said a few words. Arya in particular had been choked up, though she refused to let her tears fall in view of anyone. Sansa thanked the venerable pirate for aiding in her rescue, and expressed regret that she’d never gotten to speak with him. Even the Hound and Bronn said a few words, their admiration clear. Syrio had been well respected amongst all of their brethren, and he would be sorely missed.

After they had all said their goodbyes, Petyr hastened them back aboard the two ships. He directed the physician and the wounded man onto the Interceptor, where Tyrion was still in critical condition, and sent Davos and Gendry over as well, so that they could have their wounds addressed. Ellaria and Oberyn took their places on the Song instead, to make up for the loss. And Commodore Stark joined both Sansa and Arya aboard the Song, along with the fourth man who’d survived the battle with Euron, who was weak but needed only rest, food, and drink to regain his strength. 

Though Petyr agreed not to lock up Sansa’s father around the clock, the other man was immediately sent to the brig, where he was provided with food and water before being left alone. Commodore Stark watched uneasily as Petyr directed his crew, and Sansa grew uncomfortably aware of her father’s eyes always on her as they set sail for Tortuga. They all were sorely in need of a rest, having sailed through the night to Rumrunner’s Island, but even with the aid of the physician Petyr still thought it best to sail for Tortuga immediately. Sansa suspected he just didn’t want to spend any more time with her father than was strictly necessary. She couldn’t blame him. She’d seen the way her father’s fingers often twitched whenever Petyr spoke, as if they were just itching to wrap around Petyr’s neck and  **_squeeze_ ** .

That really didn’t bode well for the conversation she knew she’d have to have with her father shortly. 

When they were well on their way, Petyr pulled her aside and told her to take her father and Arya to the captain’s quarters, where they could talk, away from disruptions. Sansa sensed that her father’s presence was making the crew uneasy and that Petyr himself misliked having the Commodore around, so she agreed, even as she dreaded hearing what would likely be her father’s vehement disapproval of her life’s choices. Still, no matter what her father said, she knew she wouldn’t allow herself to be dissuaded. And she knew too that Petyr wasn’t about to let her father take her away from him. That, at least, gave her comfort. And courage too.

The captain’s quarters were better taken care of than the rest of the ship, though the rich silks and other fabrics had long ago grown tattered, their colors yellowed with age or spotted with blood, food, and or drink, and poorly cleaned. But it was fairly clean, and comfortable besides, and once Ellaria had visited them with food and drink, Sansa found herself slowly relaxing. They spoke very little, at first, focused on sating their hunger or thirst, or getting settled. But eventually the chewing slowed and the goblets were set aside, and her father’s gaze lifted to find her own.

Sansa stiffened at the expression on his face, but then it softened and he sighed, and her shoulders slumped in what was likely presumptive relief. “I want to know what happened,” he said, his gaze turning to include Arya as well. “Everything. From both of you. Starting with the night the pirates raided the town.” He paused. “Had either of you met Baelish before that day?”

They both shook their heads, and Commodore Stark nodded to show that he believed them. Then Sansa gave him a small smile and began to speak. “It’s going to take awhile to explain everything,” she said. “And for you to fully understand, we’re going to have to go back further than a few days ago.” 

She explained about Gendry, how seven years ago, when they’d found and rescued him from the wreckage of that merchant ship, she found the pirate medallion. How she’d deduced that Gendry must have been from the pirate ship, not from the merchant ship, and why she’d decided to keep it a secret. And then she returned to the not so distant past, and told her father about how she’d dreamed of that night, how she’d chosen to wear the medallion the following morning. How she’d been wearing it when she’d nearly drowned, and wearing it still when Euron and his crew raided Port Royal.

Arya chipped in then, talking about how two pirates had broken into their home, how she’d tried to fight them off, but one had escaped her, and the other had stuffed her in a cupboard. And Sansa picked up where her sister had left off, explaining to her father why she’d been taken, about how her foolish attempts to barter with Euron and his crew had backfired. She spoke of how she’d dined with Euron and learned about the curse, how they’d planned to use her blood to break it, mistakenly believing her to be the relation of one of their former crew. Finally, she told of her experience on Isla de la Muerta, and how Petyr and Arya had rescued her after Euron had struck her, angry that Sansa wasn’t who she’d claimed to be.

Then Sansa listened for awhile as Arya told her side, hearing for the first time in full what her sister — and Petyr — had done to rescue her. Commodore Stark looked aghast as Arya told him how she and Gendry had freed Petyr, thinking there was no other way to find Sansa again, and how they’d stolen the Interceptor and gone to Tortuga to gather a crew, before sailing to Isla de la Muerta. Arya went on to tell how she’d tried to free Gendry during the battle, only to find herself locked in the brig with him while the pirates retook the Interceptor, then detailed how they’d found Sansa with Petyr on Rumrunner’s Island.

It was then that Sansa found it difficult to look at her father, for though she didn’t regret her actions, she was ashamed to recount them to him. She told him how she’d hoped that sending Petyr away with the coin would help spare everyone from Euron’s wrath, and how she’d decided at the last minute to go with Petyr. Her cheeks burned as she told her father that she’d fallen in love with Petyr, and that he felt the same. 

She didn’t give her father a chance to rebuke her for it, however, quickly moving on to the events that proceeded, straight through the battle and to her hopeful search for him and the rest of the crew of the Dauntless. It took some time, but she made sure to include Gendry’s history as well, and how he was connected to everything. Finally, Arya wrapped up the tale with a few tidbits of her own, before letting the conversation lapse into silence, uncertain what to say next. 

Sansa, who hadn’t been able to look at her father since she’d told him she was in love with Petyr, dared to glance up and meet Commodore Stark’s gaze, but soon wished she hadn’t. 

He looked furious.

“I know what you’re thinking of telling me, young lady, and I won’t have it,” he warned.

Her anger was quick to flare, easily matching his own. She straightened, meeting his gaze head on. “It’s not your call to make,” she said firmly.

“The hell it isn’t,” he growled. “Once we get back to Tortuga, we’re finding the first ship out and heading straight back to Port Royal. End of story.”

Sansa got to her feet, the chair scraping back violently as she stood. “I’ve already made my choice. Now you can either accept it, and still remain in contact with me when I’m able, or you can refuse, and lose a daughter. Your call.”

Commodore Stark turned to Arya. “And what of you?” he demanded. “Have you lost your mind as well?”

Arya’s gaze darted between Sansa and the Commodore before setting on their father. “You don’t like pirates,” she said finally. “Does that include Gendry?”

He frowned. “If the boy is intent on sailing with them, then yes.”

Arya shrugged. “Then I guess I have.”

“I don’t believe this,” Commodore Stark muttered, before continuing, his voice growing louder with every word he spoke. “I didn’t raise you to consort with pirates, let alone join them! I thought I taught you about honor, about doing the right thing, always.”

“And when haven’t we?” Sansa asked, crossing her arms as she glowered at her father. “There is more than one type of honor, and more than one way to do the right thing. We’ve been loyal to each other, and to you, and we’ve helped rid the world of Euron and his crew. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“You cannot claim that Petyr Baelish — or any of these pirates he sails with — is honorable,” Commodore Stark spat. “They’re pirates, Sansa. Their very definition is  **_without_ ** honor.”

“Perhaps so, but they aren’t the demons you’ve made them out to be,” she insisted. “And there’s good in them too, just as there’s good and bad in all of us. And I like them, and I love Petyr, and this is the life I want. And nothing you say will ever change my mind.” She blew out a breath of air, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but if you make me choose between the two of you, you won’t like the answer. Think on that.”

She turned and made her way to the door, then paused, her hand on the knob. “I hope we can part on Tortuga on good terms. And if not, know that I love you, and that I will always wish we parted differently.”

That said, she left, her heart aching with the promise of a future yet untold.

 

* * *

 

**_Arya:_ **

Arya watched as her sister left the room; their father remained seated, still seething from the conversation they’d just had. It hadn’t surprised Arya in the slightest that Sansa had chosen to stay with Petyr rather than return to her life in Port Royal. Arya herself was wrestling with a similar decision, though, like Sansa, Arya already knew without question what she would do. It wasn’t a lack of conviction that was holding Arya back, but rather regret that her decision would hurt her father. She hated to disappoint him, but she didn’t want a life without Gendry in it. And if her father forced her to choose between Gendry or him, she’d choose Gendry.

It wasn’t fair of the Commodore to force such a choice on her. Nor on Sansa, no matter how much Arya misliked her sister’s choice. Arya knew that Gendry would never ask her to choose, that he’d probably encourage her to return to Port Royal and forget all about him. As for Baelish, Arya didn’t like the man, but she didn’t think he’d asked Sansa to choose either. No, Sansa made her own choices, and did what she wanted, what she thought would make her happiest.

And Arya would too.

She glanced over at her father to see him staring at her, his expression broken. Her heart clenched.

“I came all this way,” he whispered. “And lost countless men. And it was all for nothing.” He buried his head in his hands. “I’ve lost everything.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “No, you haven’t. Not if you quit being an idiot. Stop thinking about what  **_you_ ** want, and think about what  **_we_ ** want. Neither of us wants to lose you. We can make this work. All you have to do is let us make our own choices. Even if you don’t like them. You don’t  **_have_ ** to like them. You just have to accept that we do.”

The Commodore looked rather affronted at being called an idiot by his own daughter, but he seemed to get her point. At least Arya hoped he did. 

Unfortunately, they weren’t left with any more time to talk, as Ellaria soon returned, with word that Arya was needed to help man the sails; the wind had grown strong, and a bit unpredictable, and all hands were needed on deck. Her father was escorted down to the brig, with no one available to keep an eye on him, and she felt a pang watching him go, knowing that these hours with him could very well be their last together. Still, she tried not to think about it, and the work helped to clear her mind as the sun climbed higher and higher in the sky. 

Commodore Stark was a stubborn man, and Arya in fact had inherited this very same trait from him, so she well knew how hard it would be for him to give in. But she held on to the hope that even he wouldn’t allow his pride to break up their family.

It was a very, very small hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts appreciated <33333333


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry has yet another revelation about his past. Poor guy. But at least he got the girl, right?

**_Gendry:_ **

Gendry hadn’t wanted to part from Arya when they set sail from Rumrunner’s Island, but it seemed he had little choice in the matter. He’d been very happy to hear that Commodore Stark had been found alive and well (a miracle in itself, considering only three other crewmen from the Dauntless had survived), and that one of the other survivors had been the ship’s physician (Tyrion and Davos were both in serious need of proper medical care), but both matters had found their way to conspire against him, in the end. The physician was sent over to the Interceptor, where Tyrion was ailing, and Captain Baelish had told Davos and Gendry that they were to switch to the Interceptor with him, where their wounds would be tended to after Tyrion’s needs had been addressed. Gendry had agreed to it, since the cuts he’d received during the battle were starting to really hurt and he wanted to spend more time with his father.

But he’d assumed, at the time, that Arya would come with him.

He’d thought wrong.

Commodore Stark was to sail with Captain Baelish and Sansa on the Song, and Arya had chosen to stay with him. Which, alright, Gendry should have known she’d want to stay with her father. She’d been so worried about the Commodore, and they hadn’t seen each other since she and Gendry had helped Captain Baelish steal the Interceptor. Surely they needed to talk about what had happened since then, if nothing else.

But Gendry hadn’t known which ship the Commodore was meant for until after he’d agreed to switch over to the Interceptor. And by then it was too late. He’d held out hope that Arya would still come with him, but of course she hadn’t. And Gendry was fine with that. She  **_should_ ** be with her father just then.

Still, it hurt just the same.

Though, if he was being honest, he wasn’t sure he would have chosen to stay on the Song if he’d had the chance. Not with the Commodore there. Gendry still felt a pang, deep in his gut, every time he remembered that the Commodore had locked him up with the rest of the pirates. Before then, he’d always considered the Commodore to be something like the father figure he’d never had. 

Now, he didn’t think he could ever forgive the Commodore for what he’d done, even if he apologized for it. And he certainly didn’t think of the Commodore as a father figure anymore. Fathers didn’t lock up their sons.

Well….

Alright, maybe they did. If they had the right reasons. Davos (Bootstrap? Bill? Gods, Gendry never knew what to call the man!) had knocked Gendry out and locked him in the brig, before Gendry had even known who Davos really was, but he’d had good reason to. And he’d apologized, which was more than Gendry could say about the Commodore. 

And anyway, Davos had never planned on  **_killing_ ** Gendry, whereas the Commodore had certainly planned to send Gendry to the noose once they reached Port Royal. All for helping both of the man’s daughters! Gendry had risked everything to help Arya and Sansa, and this was the thanks he got from their father. How ungrateful could you get?

It was funny though, how Gendry had lost a father figure in this adventure, only to gain another, this one of his own flesh and blood. 

It was awhile before either Davos or Gendry was seen by the physician. Ros had done her best to fix up Tyrion, but he apparently still needed quite a bit of care. Gendry helped man the sails while he waited, though Davos’ condition had worsened enough that he could do little more than stand at the helm, directing their course. When the physician had done all he could for Tyrion, Gendry insisted that Davos go first. The older man protested at first, his eyes flicking to the various wounds that marked Gendry’s skin, but Gendry refused to back down. 

After Gendry had seen the physician, he sought out Davos again, who’d been ordered to go below deck and get some shut eye. Gendry had only planned to check to make sure that the older man was doing as ordered, but when Davos spotted him, eyes opening at the sound Gendry’s boots made against the floor, he stayed to talk.

“You’re supposed to be getting some sleep,” Gendry told him, crossing his arms as he leaned against a support beam.

Davos closed his eyes again. “Been trying. The mind won’t quit.”

Gendry suddenly remembered another conversation he’d had with Davos, where their positions had been reversed, Gendry in the hammock, Davos standing. Weird.

“I hate it when that happens,” Gendry said, feeling awkward.

“Aye, I think we all do.” Davos sighed and sat up, his boots hitting the floor, forearms resting along his knees, hands joining. “I s’pose there’s nothing for it but to resolve what’s bothering me. I owe you an explanation regardless if it helps me sleep.”

Gendry swallowed. “I’m not sure how many more revelations I can take, to be honest. I feel like I’ve had a lifetime of them in just a few short days.”

Davos chuckled before his expression sobered. “I’m sorry, my boy. I never meant for any of this to happen. You and I, we were never meant to part.” He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “If you’ve no wish to know, I won’t burden you with it.”

Gendry shook his head. “No, I want to know.” He paused. “Or rather, I think I should know. I’m not sure if I want to, really. But it’s better to know, I think. I’ve spent far too long not knowing.”

Davos nodded. “I understand that.” He stared down at his hands for a long moment, then glanced back up, meeting Gendry’s gaze. “First off, I want you to know, I’ve always loved you. You’re my son, and never has a day gone by that I haven’t thought of you. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, letting you go.” He sighed. “Blood doesn’t make a family. I know you’ve learned that. The Starks have been your family, these past seven years. I can see it. You might love Arya in a way that’s not sisterly, but she’s family to you. As is Sansa. And when a man sails with a group of men, those men often become family as well. Family is born from circumstance as oft as from blood.”

Gendry wasn’t sure where Davos was going with this, but he nodded to show he understood.

“Many years ago, before I was Bootstrap Bill, I was Davos Seaworth.” At this, Gendry cocked a brow, and Davos’ lips tightened into a smile before he continued, “I was a reformed pirate, who served under one of the finest families in Port Royal. Under one of the finest  **_men_ ** in Port Royal. Stannis Baratheon saw beyond the stigma of piracy, to the man beneath. He helped me begin a respectable life where before I had none. We grew close. I became his confidant, his adviser.” Davos paused. “I’m certain you know of his brother, Robert.”

Gendry nodded. “He’s the mayor of Port Royal. Commodore Stark is good friends with him. The Starks often go to parties at the family’s seaside home.” He smiled. “Arya always skips them, if she can.”

Davos smiled too, though it was brief. “I’m not sure what else you know of the man, but Robert’s marriage has never been a happy one. He’s been known to father many a bastard in his time, though few make it past infancy. Nor do their mothers survive long after birth. If they are even alive long enough to give birth. It’s not a well known secret. The Lannisters pay a great deal to keep Robert’s affairs quiet, misliking anything that tarnishes their good name. The mothers and their children pay a great deal more, unfortunately.”

Gendry felt like he was going to be sick. To think, such horrors had been going on for years, and he’d known nothing of it. How could anyone truly justify the murder of so many innocents? And why, why was Davos telling him any of this?

He thought he might know, but he didn’t acknowledge it. Not yet. He wanted confirmation first.

“Stannis got wind of what the Lannisters were doing, and decided to try to put a stop to it. He knew better than to challenge the Lannisters outright, but he hoped that he could find and help the mothers before the Lannisters found them. With Robert’s help, and my own, he sent away countless women, giving them passage out of Port Royal and the means to start a new life. But Robert drinks nearly as much as he seeks out the company of women, and he wasn’t always great at remembering who he’d been with or if he’d gotten them with child. One woman, your mother, slipped through the cracks. It wasn’t until after she’d died giving birth that we learned of her, her younger sister, perhaps only eight years old, risking all to come to us, with you in her arms. She’d heard whispers of us, you see, from the families of others we’d helped. They’d been waiting for us to come, but we never had.”

Gendry was staring at the floor now. He felt numb.

“We were at a loss at first, but in the end I knew what to do. I asked the girl if she had any other family, and she said she had an older brother of fifteen who could look after her. She would be safe with him. We gave them the means to leave town, and kept you. Stannis tried to talk me out of what I planned to do, but I couldn’t see another way out of it, and by then I’d held you in my arms, and I knew you were mine.” Davos blew out a breath of air. “And so I left Port Royal and became a pirate once more, this time under the name of Bill Waters. I called you Gendry, and by the gods, we were happy. For a long time.”

Gendry felt his eyes watering and squeezed them shut, tight, his fists clenching as he did so, as if he could force the pain away. This man wasn’t his father either, then. Robert Baratheon was. The mayor of Port Royal was his father. 

It all seemed like some horrible joke.

Davos got to his feet. “Remember what I told you though. Blood doesn’t always make a family. Circumstance made you my son, and though I don’t know if you’ll ever see me as a father, you’ll always be my son regardless. We’ve lost so much time, seven years of it, but if you want me in your life, I will be. I swear it.” He paused, clearing his throat. “And if not, I understand.”

Gendry relaxed his fists, opened his eyes. A tear snaked down his cheek, then another. Davos was standing before him, looking uncertain. Afraid. Gendry could see what it cost Davos, to let Gendry make his own decisions. To risk never seeing him again, if that’s what he truly wanted.

Gendry didn’t want that.

He didn’t know Davos, not really, not with the years they’d spent together stolen from his mind, but he could get to know him again. It was worth a try. They had a second chance, and Gendry would be a fool if he didn’t take it.

“Thank you,” he told Davos. “For telling me. It will take time, to process everything. But you’re right. You don’t need to share blood to be a family. I would like to get to know you, at least. See where it goes.”

A smile broke out on Davos’ face, and Gendry suddenly noticed that the older man’s eyepatch was gone, the eye it had hidden whole and unblemished. It must have been purely for disguise, Gendry realized. 

“I’d like that,” Davos said.

And Gendry smiled too. Perhaps this little adventure hadn’t been all bad. He’d gotten a second chance at having a family (well, perhaps this was his third. Or fourth?),  **_and_ ** he’d gotten the girl. Or, at least he thought he had. 

She had kissed him, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really proud of how this chapter turned out - I think it's some of my best work, and I loved writing Davos. I hope you like the chapter too <333
> 
> Thoughts appreciated :)
> 
> tumblr: @petyrbaealish


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbyes.

**_Sansa:_ **

Sansa was ashamed of how grateful she was that the wind had necessitated all hands on deck, and, consequently, her father’s imprisonment in the brig, since no one was free to watch him. She knew that these hours might be their very last in each other’s company, but he’d angered her with his refusal to see her side, to compromise. Apparently his honor meant more to him than his daughter.

There was still time for him to change his mind. They hadn’t yet reached Tortuga, wouldn’t in fact do so until late that night, perhaps even the next morning, if the winds blew them too far off course. And her father had little to do but sit and think, down in the brig. Unless he spent the whole time talking with his cellmate, but Sansa didn’t think that likely. Commodore Stark was generally a man of few words, and unless anger had taken ahold of him in the moment, he would often lapse into silence.

She still had hope, but it seemed fleeting at best, a curl of silk ribbon held tight in her hands, the violent winds teasing it loose bit by bit, until it was swept away, lost to the skies and the seas. There seemed to be nothing she could do to keep ahold of the slippery fabric, try as she might, and perhaps it was best not to. If she gave up hope now, then she might not feel as devastated when her father failed to see reason.

Somehow though, despite the sound reasoning behind this theory, she didn’t believe that. Or at least she couldn’t stop grasping at the ribbon, chasing it as it danced, unwilling to give up.

Sansa wished she could talk to Arya about it, though she didn’t think her sister would be all that much help. Still, she could see that Arya was in a similar predicament. She didn’t know when it had happened, but it seemed that Arya and Gendry had finally recognized their feelings for one another, and had turned from friends into something more. And now that Gendry had learned of his parentage, and the Commodore had branded him a pirate anyway, Sansa could only assume that Gendry would choose to stay with Davos, and Arya would choose to be with him. A life of piracy actually seemed kind of perfect for Arya, when you thought about it. Arya had never liked the social constraints of being a highborn lady — she was made for so much more.

So was Sansa, in fact, though Sansa doubted she’d be wielding a sword anytime soon. Although she did quite like using a dagger….

Sansa wanted to talk to Petyr about it as well, but what with the wind and their need to return to Tortuga (which was less pressing, now that they had a physician to tend to Tyrion and the other wounded, but it was still pertinent to return to land as soon as possible. They were running out of food, for one), they couldn’t find more than a few spare moments together. She wished that she could do more to help as they sailed through the waves, but she’d never before cared or needed to learn of the finer points of sailing or managing a crew. That ignorance wouldn’t remain much longer, she imagined, now that she was to live at sea amongst pirates, but at present she could do little more than man the helm and watch everyone else as they worked, taking mental note of everything they did.

Everyone was fading fast by nightfall, their lack of rest catching up with them, the dark inviting them to shut their eyes, to give in to the pull and welcome respite of sleep. And yet still they pressed on, singing at the top of their lungs in hopes of keeping themselves awake. Arya had started it, singing ‘A Pirate’s Life For Me’ in a fit of sardonic whimsy, and it had quickly caught on. Sometimes, when the wind calmed, Sansa could hear snatches of the very same song coming from the Interceptor, though never in sync with the Song’s own rendition. In the dark, it almost seemed like the sea itself was echoing their words in a disjointed musical round.

By the time they docked in Tortuga, Sansa had heard ‘A Pirate’s Life For Me’ so many times she thought the lyrics might be forever burned in her brain. Voices had long since grown hoarse, and slightly hysterical, and they attracted more than a few strange looks from passerby on the docks as they tied up both ships. Before they scattered, Petyr called everyone to gather before him, prisoners, able bodied, and wounded alike.

“Now, I know you’re all in dire need of sleep and the like, but I thought I’d give each of you a bit of spending money before you scatter in search of drink, food, or women,” Petyr said, nodding at Lothor, who began to walk amongst the pirates, handing each of them (save for the Hound and Bronn) several pieces of pressed gold. “This is but a fraction of the riches coming to you in your near future. Spend it well, and consider it a part of your payment for a job well done. It should be enough to pay for any medical expenses — ” here he looked at Tyrion and Shae “ — and then some. Go, get cleaned up, celebrate, what have you, and tomorrow morning we’ll talk about what comes next.”

Those paid nodded their appreciation, then left, Oberyn and Ellaria assisting Shae with Tyrion. Before Lothor reboarded the Interceptor, he passed the bag of gold back to Petyr, who then turned to the Hound and Bronn. “As for you two, you can do as you like. If you want to stay on the crew for the Song, you’re welcome to on a trial basis. As far as payment is considered, I assume your lives are more than a fair price, but here’s something for your troubles regardless.” Petyr passed over a gold coin to each man. “Should you join the crew, no portion of Isla de la Muerta’s riches will come to you, but all future plunders are negotiable. Understood?”

The Hound and Bronn nodded. “We’ll think on it,” Bronn assured Petyr. He winked at Sansa. “Nice knowing you. Though next time I’d rather you spared me the headache.”

The Hound nodded at her, a smile twisting across his face. “Little bird,” he grunted, before turning and walking away.

That left only Sansa’s father, and his three men, to deal with. Arya and Gendry were still with them as well, for which Sansa was grateful. Although she rather wished Petyr hadn’t let everyone else go. At least Davos was still aboard the Song, and Lothor was on the Interceptor, if they needed someone.

Petyr pulled two more coins out of the bag and held them out to Commodore Stark. “For passage back to Port Royal,” he explained. “It’s enough for you, at the very least, but if you’re shrewd you might be able to bargain for all four of you.”

Sansa gave Petyr an exasperated look, and he relented, pulling out two more. The Commodore just glared at him, refusing to take the money. Sansa sighed.

“Father, I’m not changing my mind. Please, take the money. I want to be sure you’ll make it home safely,” she said.

Commodore Stark shook his head. “No. I’ll not accept it. Sansa, you don’t even know this man! We have a history, and if only you knew — ”

“I do know,” she cut him off. “Petyr told me everything. How he grew up with mother, and fell in love with her, and how the two of you fought. He even told me about what happened with Aunt Lysa. But all of that is in the past. We’ve moved beyond it. You should too.”

Arya was gaping at her, but Sansa ignored her sister. She was more worried about her father’s reaction, right now.

“Just because he’s told you a few scant details doesn’t mean you know him!” Commodore Stark insisted. “How long have you two even been in each other’s company? A day, at most? And yet you claim that you love each other! Sansa, it’s just not possible. You can’t just throw your life away for someone you barely know.”

“I’m not. I was never meant for Port Royal, and I was certainly never meant for Joffrey.  **_This_ ** is what I’m meant for.  **_Petyr_ ** is who I’m meant for. And if you don’t see that, then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Sansa said, her voice trembling with rage.

“Sansa, please,” her father begged. “ **_Please_ ** .”

She bit her lip, using the pain to ground her, to force the tears back that were threatening to break free. “I told you before, if you make me choose, you know the answer.”

The Commodore looked at a loss for words. Sansa took the coins from Petyr and stepped forward, pressing them into her father’s hand as she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you,” she whispered. “Don’t make me choose.”

She stepped back, and the tears began to fall.

Her father swallowed, his hand clenching around the money. He nodded. “If this is what you want.” His voice sounded hoarse, defeated.

Sansa gave him a watery smile. “It is.”

He nodded again. “Write to me. As often as you can.”

“I will,” she promised him.

He tried to smile at her then, but it was forced, and painful to watch. It lasted but a second before it drooped into a frown, and he turned his focus on Arya. “And you? Am I to lose you too?”

 

* * *

 

**_Arya:_ **

Arya hated to see the way that Sansa’s decision had broken her father. Hated it more still that Arya’s own decision was bound to do the same. When he asked her if she was leaving him too, she almost felt like she couldn’t bear to do it. That she wasn’t brave enough to break her father’s heart.

She’d never not been brave. She’d  **_never_ ** felt so afraid.

“No,” she told him. “We may be saying goodbye for now, but you haven’t lost me. We’ll see each other again. I’ll make sure of it.” She wouldn’t promise to write. She’d never been one to write letters.

The Commodore looked devastated, and Arya didn’t think she’d ever seen him in so much pain. And for herself to be the cause of it, and Sansa too, it was almost too much. Arya hated herself for it, and Sansa too, but Arya wouldn’t, couldn’t change her mind. 

Wherever Gendry went, she would go too. 

Arya watched as her father tried and failed to steady himself, then could take it no longer. She went to him, and let him enfold her into a hug, and then Sansa was there too, and Arya was hating herself once again because she was crying.

It really was goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearly there! Just two more chapters will wrap this fic up. Thanks to all who have left comments and kudos - it really means so much to me <333


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